THE  AUTHOR  OF 

~JOHN  HENRY*11 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BACK    TO   THE   WOODS 


BACK   TO   THE 
WOODS 

THE  STORY  OF  A  FALL  FROM  GRACE 
BY  HUGH  McHUGH      >- 


AUTHOR  OF 

JOHN  HENRY."  "DOWN  THE  LINE  WITH  JOHN 
HENRY,"  "  IT'S  UP  TO  YOU."  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 

G.  W.    DILLINGHAM  CO. 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 

BY  G.  W.  DlLLINGHAM  Co, 

Issued  January,  1903 


[4U  right!  rttervttt] 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS 


fiS 
3SVS 


To  all  the  boys  la  the  Hammer  Club:— Greetings 
and  gesuadbeit  I  Get  together  aow  and  hit  hard— 
for  the  Devil  loveth  a  Cheerful  Knocker. 


G 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 

JOHN  HENRY'S   LUCKY  DAYS      .    .    .  n 

JOHN  HENRY'S  GHOST  STORY     ...  27 

JOHN  HENRY  s    BURGLAR 42 

JOHN  HENRY'S   COUNTRY  COP    .     .    .  61 

JOHN    HENRY'S  TELEGRAM     ....  71 

JOHN  HENRY'S  Two   QUEENS    ...  86 

JOHN  HENRY'S  HAPPY   HOME    .    .    .  100 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Yours  till  the  last  whistle  blows,   believe 

me!     John  Henry  ....     Frontispiece. 

FACING 
PAGE 

Clara  J. — A   Dream   of   Peaches — Please 

Pass  the  Cream 27 

Uncle  Peter — the  Original  Trust  Tamer   .       42 

Aunt  Martha — a  Short,   Stout  Bundle  of 

Good  Nature 61 

Tacks — the  Boy  Disaster 71 

Bunch   Jefferson — All   to  the   Good    and 

Two  to  Carry 100 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS! 

CHAPTER   I. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  LUCKY  DAYS. 

SEVEN,  come  eleven! 
After  promising  Clara  J. 
that   I   would    never    again 
light  a  pipe  at  the  race  track,  there  I 
stood,  one  of  the  busiest  puff-puff  lad 
dies  on  the  circuit. 

Well,  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  just 
this :  I  fell  asleep  at  the  switch  and 
somebody  put  the  white  lights  all  over 
me. 

Just  how  I  happened  to  join  the 
Dream  Builders'  Association  I  don't 
know,  but  for  several  weeks  I  was 
Willie  the  Wild  Boy  at  the  race  track 
and  I  kept  all  the  Bookmakers  busy 


12  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

trying  not  to  laugh  when  they  took  my 
money. 

Every  day  when  I  showed  up  at  the 
gate  the  Pipers  played  "Darling, 
Dream  of  Me!"  and  every  time  I 
picked  a  skate  the  Smokers'  Society 
went  into  executive  session  and  elect 
ed  me  a  life  member. 

Every  horse  that  finished  last  gave 
me  the  trembling  lip  as  he  crawled 
home,  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  I 
had  caught  him  with  the  goods. 

I  blame  Bunch  Jefferson  for  putting 
the  bug  in  my  Central. 

Bunch  went  down  to  the  skating 
pond  one  day  with  $18  and  picked 
four  live  wires  at  an  average  of  8  to 
i.  Then  he  began  to  talk  about  him 
self. 

After  that  event  whenever  I  hap 
pened  to  meet  Bunch  he  would  raise 
his  megaphone  and  fill  the  neighbor 
hood  with  hot  ozone,  fresh  from  the 
oven. 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  that  boy  swell. 

Just  to  cure  Bunch  and  drive  him 


BACK   TO   THE   WOODS.  1 3 

out  of  the  balloon  business  I  made  up 
my  mind  one  day  I'd  run  down  to  the 
Flatfish  Factory  and  drag  a  few  hon 
est  dollars  away  from  the  Bookmak 
ers. 

Splash ! 

That's  where  I  fell  overboard. 

One  bright  Saturday  P.  M.  found 
me  clinging  to  a  wad  the  size  of  a 
fountain  pen  and  trying  to  decide 
whether  I'd  better  play  Dinkalorum  at 
40  to  I  or  Hysterics  at  9  to  5. 

I  finally  decided  that  a  ten-spot  on 
Dinkalorum  would  net  me  enough  to 
give  Bunch  a  line  of  sad  talk,  so  I 
stepped  up  to  the  poor-box  and  con 
tributed. 

Dinkalorum  started  off  in  the  lead 
like  a  pale  streak  and  I  immediately 
bought  an  entirely  new  set  of  furni 
ture  for  the  flat. 

About  half  way  around  a  locomo 
tive  whistle  happened  to  blow  near  by. 
Dinkalorum,  being  a  Union  horse, 
thought  it  was  six  o'clock  and  refused 


14  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

absolutely  to  work  a  minute  over 
time. 

I  had  to  put  the  furniture  back  in 
the  store. 

In  the  next  race  I  decided  to  play 
a  system  of  my  own  invention  so  I 
took  my  program,  counted  seven  up, 
four  down  and  two  up,  all  of  which 
resulted  in  Pink  Slob  at  60  to  I. 

It  looked  good  and  I  handed  Isa- 
dore  Longfinger  $10  for  the  purpose 
of  tearing  $600  away  from  him  a  lit 
tle  later  on. 

Pink  Slob  got  away  in  the  lead  but 
he  made  the  mistake  of  walking  fast 
instead  of  running,  with  the  result 
that  when  the  other  horses  were  back 
in  the  stable  Pinkie  was  still  giving  a 
heel  and  toe  exhibition  around  near 
third  base. 

It  wasn't  my  day,  so  I  squeezed  into 
the  thirst  parlor  and  bathed  my  in 
jured  feelings  with  sarsaparilla. 

Just  before  the  last  race  I  ran  across 
Bunch.  He  was  over  $300  to  the  good 
and  he  wanted  to  treat  me  to  a  lot  of 


BACK  TO   THE   WOODS.  1 5 

kind  words  he  felt  like  saying  about 
himself. 

Oh !  but  maybe  he  wasn't  the  City 
Boy  with  the  Head  in  the  Suburbs ! 

When  I  reached  home  that  night  I 
felt  like  a  sock  that  needs  darning. 

Clara  J.  had  invited  Uncle  Peter  to 
take  dinner  with  us  and  he  began  to 
give  me  the  nervous  look-over  as  soon 
as  I  answered  roll  call. 

Uncle  Peter  is  a  very  stout,  old 
gentleman.  When  he  squeezes  into 
our  little  flat  the  walls  act  like  they  are 
bow-legged. 

Uncle  Peter  always  goes  through 
the  folding  doors  sideways  and  every 
time  he  sits  down  the  man  in  the  flat 
below  kicks  because  we  move  the  piano 
so  often. 

Tacks  was  also  present. 

Tacks  is  my  youthful  brother-in- 
law  with  a  mind  like  a  walking  dele 
gate  because  he's  always  looking  for 
trouble  and  when  he  finds  it  he  passes 
it  up  to  somebody  who  doesn't  need  it. 


1 6  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"Evening,  John!"  gurgled  Uncle 
Peter ;  "late,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Cars  blocked,  delayed  me,"  I 
sighed. 

"New  York  will  be  a  nice  place 
when  they  get  it  finished,  won't  it?" 
chirped  Tacks. 

Just  then  Aunt  Martha  squeezed  in 
from  a  shopping  excursion  and  I  went 
out  in  the  hall  while  she  counted  up 
and  dragged  out  the  day's  spoils  for 
Clara  J.  to  look  at. 

Aunt  Martha  is  Uncle  Peter's  wife 
only  she  weighs  more  and  breathes  of- 
tener. 

When  the  two  of  them  visit  our  bird 
cage  at  the  same  time  the  janitor  has 
to  go  out  and  stand  in  front  of  the 
building  with  a  view  to  catching  it  if 
it  falls. 

That  night  I  waded  into  all  the 
sporting  papers  and  burned  dream 
pipes  till  the  smoke  made  me  dizzy. 

The  next  day  I  hit  the  track  with 
three  sure-fires  and  a  couple  of  per- 
hapses. 


BACK   TO  THE   WOODS.  IJ 

There  was  nothing  to  it.  All  I  had 
to  do  was  to  keep  my  nerve  and  not 
get  side-tracked  and  I'd  have  enough 
coin  to  make  Andrew  Carnegie's 
check  book  look  like  a  punched  meal 
ticket. 

I  played  them — and  when  the  An- 
gelus  was  ringing  Moses  O'Brien  and 
three  other  Bookbinders  were  out  buy 
ing  meal  tickets  with  my  money. 

Things  went  along  this  way  for 
about  a  week  and  I  was  all  to  the 
bad. 

One  evening  Clara  J.  said  to  me, 
"John,  I  looked  through  your  check 
book  to-day  and  I've  had  a  cold  on  my 
chest  ever  since.  At  first  I  thought  I 
had  opened  the  refrigerator  by  mis 
take." 

At  last  the  blow  had  fallen! 

I  had  promised  her  faithfully  be 
fore  we  were  married  that  I'd  never 
play  the  ponies  again  and  I  fell  and 
broke  my  word. 

The  accident  was  painful,  and  I'd 
be  a  sad  scamp  to  put  her  wise  at  this 


1 8  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

late  day,  especially  after  being  fried  to 
a  finish. 

•  I  simply  didn't  dare  confess  that  my 
money  had  gone  into  a  fund  to  fur 
nish  a  home  for  Incurable  Bookmak 
ers — what  to  do?  What  to  do? 

She  had  me  lashed  to  the  mast. 

"May  I  inquire,"  my  wife  continued 
with  the  breath  of  winter  in  her  tones, 
"why  it's  all  going  out  and  nothing 
coming  in?  Have  you  begun  so  soon 
to  lead  a  double  life?" 

Mother,  call  your  baby  boy  back 
home!  If  Uncle  Peter  would  only 
drop  in,  or  Tacks  or  Aunt  Martha  or 
even  the  janitor! 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  me: 
"Dearie,"  I  said,  "you  have  surprised 
my  secret,  and  now  nothing  remains 
but  the  pleasure  of  telling  you  every 
thing." 

A  thaw  set  in. 

"As  you  have  stated,  not  incorrect 
ly,  my  dear,  large  bundles  of  Green 
Fellows  have  severed  their  home  ties 
and  tiptoed  into  the  elsewhere,"  I  con- 


BACK   TO   THE   WOODS.  19 

tinued,  gradually  getting  my  nerve 
back. 

The  thermometer  continued  to  go 
up. 

"Clara  J.,  on  several  occasions  you 
have  expressed  a  desire  to  leave  this 
torn-up  city  and  retire  to  the  wood 
lands,  haven't  you?"  I  asked. 

She  nodded  and  the  weather  grew 
warmer. 

"Once  you  said  to  me,  'Oh,  John,  if 
they'd  only  take  New  York  off  the  op 
erating  table  and  give  the  poor  city  a 
chance  to  get  well,  how  nice  it  would 
be!'— didn't  you?" 

Another  nod. 

"Well,"  I  said,  backing  Munchausen 
in  a  corner  and  dragging  his  medals 
away  from  him,  "that's  the  answer. 
You  for  the  Burbs !  You  for  the  cha 
teau  up  the  track!  Henceforth,  you 
for  the  cage  in  the  country  where  the 
daffydowndillys  sing  in  the  treetops 
and  buttercups  chirp  from  bough  to 
bough !" 

"Oh,    John!"    she   exclaimed,  faint 


20  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

with  delight;  "do  you  really  mean 
you've  bought  a  home  in  the  country  ? 
How  perfectly  lovely!  You,  dear, 
dear,  old  John !  And  that's  what 
you've  been  doing  with  all  your 
money,  just  to  surprise  me !  Bless 
your  dear  good  heart !  Oh !  I'm  so 
glad,  and  so  delighted.  Won't  it  be 
simply  grand?" 

I  could  feel  the  cold,  spectral  form 
of  Sapphira  leaning  over  my  left 
shoulder,  urging  me  on. 

"What  is  it  like?  How  many 
rooms?  Where  is  it?"  she  inquired, 
all  in  one  breath. 

Where  was  the  blamed  thing  ?  What 
did  it  look  like?  How  did  I  know? 
She  could  search  me.  I  could  feel  my 
ears  getting  red.  Presently  I  braced 
and  mumbled,  "No  more  details  till  the 
castle  is  completed,  then  I'll  coax  you 
out  there  and  let  you  revel." 

"How  soon  will  that  be?"  she  asked, 
"To-morrow?  Yes,  John,  to-mor 
row?" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  21 

"No,"  I  whispered  croupily,  "in — 
in  about  a  week." 

I  wanted  time  to  arrange  my  earth 
ly  affairs. 

"Oh !  lovely !"  she  said,  and  kissing 
me  rushed  away  to  break  the  news  to 
mother. 

I  felt  like  a  rain  check  after  the  sun 
comes  out. 

Suddenly  Hope  tugged  at  my  heart 
strings  and  I  remembered  that  I  had  a 
week  in  which  to  beat  the  ponies  to  a 
pulp  and  win  out  enough  coin  to  buy 
six  Swiss  Cheese  cottages  in  the  coun 
try. 

Day  after  day  I  waded  in  among  the 
jelly  fish  at  the  track  but  the  best  I 
ever  got  was  an  $8  win. 

Eight  dollars  wouldn't  buy  a  dog 
house. 

I  was  desperate.  Every  evening  I 
had  to  sit  around  and  listen  while  Clara 
J.  told  Tacks  or  Uncle  Peter  or  Aunt 
Martha  or  Mother  what  she  intended 
doing  when  we  moved  to  the  country. 

They  had  it  all  cooked  up.     Uncle 


22  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

Peter  and  Aunt  Martha  were  coming 
to  live  with  us  and  Tacks  would  be 
there  to  let  us  live  with  him. 

Uncle  Peter  intended  starting  a 
garden  truck  farm  in  the  back  yard 
and  Tacks  figured  on  building  a  chick 
en  coop  somewhere  between  the  front 
gate  and  the  parlor. 

Aunt  Martha  and  Clara  J.  almost 
came  to  blows  over  the  question  of 
milking  the  cow.  Aunt  Martha  in 
sisted  that  cows  are  milked  by  ma 
chinery  and  Clara  J.  was  equally  pos 
itive  that  moral  suasion  is  the  only 
means  by  which  a  cow  can  be  brought 
to  a  show  down. 

In  the  meantime  I  was  dying  every 
half  hour. 

Finally  the  day  preceding  the  long- 
talked  of  country  excursion  arrived 
and  I  began  to  figure  on  the  safest  and 
least  inexpensive  methods  of  suicide. 

I  went  to  the  track  in  the  afternoon 
and  threw  out  enough  gold  dust  to 
paint  our  country  home  from  cellar  to 
attic — but  never  a  sardine  showed. 


BACK   TO  THE   WOODS.  «3 

Frostbitten  and  suffocated  by  the 
odor  of  burning  money  I  crept  into  a 
seat  in  the  car  and  began  to  plan  my 
finale. 

Presently  an  elbow  poked  me  in  the 
ribs  and  I  looked  into  the  smiling  face 
of  Bunch  Jefferson. 

"Still  piking,  eh?«"  he  chuckled; 
"you  wouldn't  trail  along  after  Your 
Uncle  Bunch  and  get  next  to  the 
candy  man,  would  you?  Only  $400  to 
the  good  to-day.  Am  I  the  picker 
from  Picklesburg,  son  of  the  old  man 
Pickwick  ? — well,  I  guess  yes !" 

Then  in  that  desperate  moment  I 
broke  down  and  confessed  all  to 
Bunch.  I  told  him  how  my  haughty 
spirit  disdained  a  tip  and  how  in  the 
pride  of  my  heart  I  doped  the  cards 
myself  and  fell  in  the  well.  I  told  him 
of  my  feverish  desire  to  beat  the 
Bookmakers  down  through  the  earth 
till  they  yelled  for  mercy,  and  I  told 
him  of  my  pitiful  dilemma  and  how  I 
had  to  build  a  home  in  the  country  be- 


24  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

fore  noon  to-morrow  or  do  a  dog  trot 
to  the  Bad  lands. 

Then  Bunch  began  to  laugh — a 
long,  loud,  discordant  laugh  which 
ended  in,  "John,  I'll  help  you  make 
good !"  and  then  I  began  to  sit  up  and 
notice  things. 

"I'm  away  head  of  this  pitty-pat 
game  at  the  Merry-go-Round,"  Bunch 
went  on,  "and  it  so  happens  that  re 
cently  I  peeled  the  wrapper  off  my  roll 
and  swapped  it  for  a  country  home  for 
my  sister  and  her  daughter.  She's  a 
young  widow,  my  sister  is,  and  one  of 
the  loveliest  little  ladies  that  ever  came 
over  the  hill.  And  she  has  a  daughter 
that's  a  regular  plate  of  peaches  and 
cream." 

Still  I  sat  in  darkness,  and  he  went 
on: 

"Now,  my  sister  won't  move  out 
there  for  a  day  or  two,  so  to-morrow, 
promptly  on  schedule  time,  you  lead 
your  domestic  fleet  over  the  sandbars 
to  that  house  and  point  with  pride  to 
its  various  beauties — are  you  wise?" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  25 

"But,  Great  Scott,  man!  it's  not 
mine!"  I  gasped. 

"Roll  a  small  pill  and  get  together," 
admonished  Bunch,  with  a  seraphic 
smile.  "Can't  you  figure  the  trick  to 
win?  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  coax 
your  gang  out  there  and  then  break 
the  painful  news  to  them  that  you've 
suddenly  discovered  the  place  is  haunt 
ed  and  that  you're  going  to  sell  it  and 
buy  a  better  bandbox — getting  wise?" 

"Bunch,"  I  murmured,  weakly, 
"you've  saved  my  life,  temporarily,  at 
least.  Where  is  this  palace?" 

"Only  forty  minutes  from  the  City 
Hall— any  old  City  Hall,"  he  an 
swered.  "It's  at  Jiggersville,  on  the 
Sitfast  &  Chewsmoke  R.R.,  eighteen 
miles  from  Anywhere,  hot  and  cold 
sidewalks  and  no  mosquitoes  in  the 
winter.  Here  you  are,  full  particu 
lars,"  and  with  this  Bunch  handed  me 
a  printed  card  which  let  me  into  all 
the  secrets  of  that  haven  of  rest  in  the 
tall  grass. 

Bless  good  old  Bunch ! 


26  BACK   TO  THE   WOODS. 

I  offered  to  buy  him  a  quart  of 
Ruinart  but  he  said  his  thirst  wasn't 
working,  so  I  had  to  paddle  off  home. 

That  evening  for  the  first  time  in 
several  weeks  I  felt  like  speaking  to 
myself. 

I  was  the  life  of  the  party  and  I  even 
beamed  approvingly  when  Uncle  Peter 
tuned  up  his  mezzo  contralto  voice  and 
began  to  write  a  book  about  the  de 
lights  of  a  country  home. 

It  was  a  cinch,  I  assured  myself, 
that  the  ghost  story  I  had  broiled  up 
to  tell  on  the  morrow  would  send  my 
suburban-mad  family  scurrying  back 
to  town. 

Many  times  mentally  I  went  over 
the  blood  curdling  details  and  I  flat 
tered  myself  that  I  surely  had  a  lot  of 
shivery  goods  for  sale. 

I  couldn't  see  myself  losing  at  all,  at 
all. 

So  me  for  Jiggersville  in  the  morn 
ing. 


Clara  J. — A  Dream  of  Peaches — 
Please   Pass  the  Cream. — Page  27. 


CHAPTER  II. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  GHOST  STORY. 

WHEN  the  alarm  clock  went 
to  work  the  next  morning 
Clara  J.  turned  around 
and  gave  it  a  look  that  made  its  teeth 
chatter. 

She  had  been  up  and  doing  an  hour 
before  that  clock  grew  nervous  enough 
to  crow. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  so  great  that 
she  was  a  Busy-Lizzie  long  before  7 
o'clock  and  we  were  not  booked  to 
leave  the  Choo-Choo  House  till  10:30. 

About  8  o'clock  she  dragged  me 
away  from  a  dream  and  I  reluctantly 
awoke  to  a  realization  of  the  fact  that 
I  was  due  to  deliver  some  goods  which 
I  had  never  seen  and  didn't  want  to 
see. 

"Get  up,  John !"  Clara  J.  suggested, 
with  a  degree  of  excitement  in  her 


28  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

voice ;  "it's  getting  dreadfully  late  and 
you  know  I'm  all  impatience  to  see 
that  lovely  home  you've  bought  for 
me  in  the  country  !" 

Me  under  the  covers,  gnawing  holes 
in  the  pillow  to  keep  from  swearing. 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  she  sighed,  "I'm 
afraid  I'm  just  a  bit  sorry  to  leave  this 
sweet  little  apartment.  We've  been  so 
happy  here,  haven't  we?" 

I  grabbed  the  ball  and  broke 
through  the  center  for  10  yards. 

"Sorry,"  I  echoed,  tearfully;  "why, 
it's  breaking  my  heart  to  leave  this 
cozy  little  collar  box  of  a  home  and 
go  into  a  great  large  country  house 
full  of — of — of  rooms,  and — er — and 
windows,  and — er — and— er — piaz 
zas,  and — and — and  cows  and  things 
like  that." 

"Of  course  we  wouldn't  have  to 
keep  the  cow  in  the  house,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "that's  the  point. 
There  would  be  a  barn,  and  you 
haven't  any  idea  how  dangerous 


BACK   TO  THE  WOODS.  29 

barns  are.  They  are  the  curse  of 
country  life,  barns  are." 

"Well,  then,  John,  why  did  you  buy 
the  cow?"  she  inquired,  and  I  went 
up  and  punched  a  hole  in  the  plaster. 

Why  did  I  buy  the  cow  ?  Was  there 
a  cow?  Had  Bunch  ever  mentioned 
a  cow  to  me?  Come  to  think  of  it  he 
hadn't  and  there  I  was  cooking  trouble 
over  a  slow  fire. 

When  I  came  to  she  was  saying 
quietly,  "Besides,  I  think  I'd  rather 
have  a  milkman  than  a  cow.  Milkmen 
swear  a  lot  and  cheat  sometimes  but 
as  a  rule  they  are  more  trustworthy 
than  cows,  and  they  very  seldom  chase 
anybody.  Couldn't  you  turn  the  barn 
into  a  gymnasium  or  something?" 

"Dearie,"  I  said,  trying  my  level  best 
to  get  a  mist  over  my  lamps  so  as  to 
give  her  the  teardrop  gaze,  "some 
thing  keeps  whispering  to  me,  'Side 
step  that  cave  in  the  wilderness !' 
Something  keeps  telling  me  that  a 
month  on  the  farm  will  put  a  crimp  in 
our  happiness,  and  that  the  moment 


30  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

we  move  into  a  home  in  the  tall  grass 
ill  luck  will  get  up  and  put  the  boots 
to  our  wedded  bliss." 

Then  I  gave  an  imitation  of  a  chok 
ing  sob  which  sounded  for  all  the 
world  like  the  last  dying  shriek  of  a 
bathtub  when  the  water  is  busy  leav 
ing  it. 

"Nonsense,  John!"  laughed  Clara 
J. ;  "it's  only  natural  that  you  regret 
leaving  our  first  home,  but  after  one 
day  in  the  country  you'll  be  happy  as 
a  king." 

"Make  it  a  deuce,"  I  muttered;  "a 
dirty  deuce  at  that." 

"Now,"  she  said,  joyfully ;  "I'm  go 
ing  to  cook  your  breakfast.  This  may 
be  your  very  last  breakfast  in  a  city 
apartment  for  months,  maybe  years, 
so  I'm  going  to  cook  it  myself.  I've 
got  every  trunk  packed — haven't  I 
worked  hard  ?  Get  up,  you  lazy  boy !" 
and  with  this  she  danced  out  of  the 
room. 

Every  trunk  packed!     Did  she  in- 


BACK   TO  THE   WOODS.  3 1 

tend  taking  them  with  her,  and  if  she 
did  how  could  I  stop  her? 

Back  to  the  woods ! 

I  began  to  feel  like  a  street  just  be 
fore  they  put  the  asphalt  down. 

For  some  time  I  lay  there  with  my 
brain  huddled  up  in  one  corner  of  my 
head,  fluttering  and  frightened. 

Presently  an  insistent  scratch-r-r-r-r 
aroused  me  and  I  began  to  sit  up  and 
notice  things. 

The  things  I  noticed  consisted 
chiefly  of  Tacks  and  the  kitchen  carv 
ing  knife.  The  former  was  seated 
on  the  floor  laboriously  engineering  the 
latter  in  an  endeavor  to  produce  a 
large  arrow-pierced  heart  on  the  pol 
ished  panel  of  the  bedroom  door. 

"What's  the  idea?"  I  inquired. 

"I'm  farewelling  the  place,"  he  an 
swered,  mournfully.  "They's  only  two 
more  doors  to  farewell  after  I  get  this 
one  finished.  Ain't  hearts  awful  hard 
to  drawr  just  right,  'specially  when 
the  knife  slips !" 

"You  little  imp !"  I  yelled ;  "do  you 


3«  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

mean  to  tell  me  you've  been  doing  a 
Swinnerton  all  over  this  man's  house? 
S'cat !"  and  I  reached  for  a  shoe. 

"Cut  it!"  cried  Tacks,  indignantly! 
"Didn't  the  janitor  say  he'd  miss  me 
dreadful,  and  how  can  he  miss  me 
'less'n  he  sees  my  loving  remember- 
ments  all  over  the  place  every  time  he 
shows  this  compartment  to  somebody 
else?  And  it  is  impolite  to  go  'way 
forever  and  ever  amen  without  fare- 
welling  the  janitor!" 

"Where  do  you  think  you're  go 
ing?"  I  inquired,  trying  hard  to  be 
calm. 

"To  the  country  to  live,  sister  told 
me,"  Tacks  bubbled;  "and  we  ain't 
never  coming  back  to  this  horrid  city, 
sister  told  me;  and  you  bought  the 
house  for  a  surprise,  sister  told  me; 
and  it  has  a  pizzazus  all  around  it,  sis 
ter  told  me ;  and  a  cow  that  gives  con 
densed  milk,  sister  told  me ;  and  they's 
hens  and  chickens  and  turkey  goblins 
and  a  garden  to  plant  potato  salad,  and 
they's  a  barn  with  pigeons  in  the  at- 


BACK   TO  THE   WOODS.  33 

tic,  and  they's  a  lawn  with  a  barbers 
wire  fence  all  around  it,  sister  told 
me ;  and  our  trunks  are  all  packed,  and 
we  ain't  never  coming  back  here  no 
more,  sister  told  me;  and  I  must 
hurry  and  farewell  them  two  doors!" 

Tacks  was  slightly  in  the  lead  when 
my  shoe  reached  the  door,  so  he  won. 

At  breakfast  we  were  joined  by 
Uncle  Peter  and  Aunt  Martha,  both 
of  whom  fairly  oozed  enthusiasm  and 
Clara  J.'s  pulse  began  to  climb  with 
excitement  and  anticipation. 

I  was  on  the  bargain  counter, 
marked  down  from  30  cents. 

Every  time  Uncle  Peter  sprang  a 
new  idea  in  reference  to  his  garden, 
and  they  came  so  fast  they  almost 
choked  him,  I  felt  a  burning  bead  of 
perspiration  start  out  to  explore  my 
forehead. 

Presently  to  put  the  froth  of  fear 
upon  my  cup  of  sorrow  there  came  a 
telegram  from  "Bunch"  which  read  as 
follows : 


34  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

New  York    

John  Henry 

No.  301  W.  logth  St. 

Sister  and  family  will  move  in  country  house  to 
morrow  be  sure  to  play  your  game  to-day  good  luck. 
Bunch. 

"Poor  John !  you  look  so  worried," 
said  Clara  J.,  anxiously ;  "I  really  hope 
it  is  nothing  that  will  call  you  back 
to  town  for  a  week  at  least.  It  will 
take  us  fully  a  week  to  get  settled, 
don't  you  think  so,  Aunt  Martha?" 

I  dove  into  my  coffee  cup  and 
stayed  under  a  long  time.  When  I 
came  to  the  surface  again  Uncle  Peter 
was  explaining  to  Tacks  that  baked 
beans  grew  only  in  a  very  hot  climate, 
and  in  the  general  confusion  the  tele 
gram  was  forgotten  by  all  except  my 
harpooned  self. 

Clara  J.  and  Aunt  Martha  were 
both  tearful  when  we  left  the  flat  to 
ride  to  the  station,  but  to  my  intense 
relief  no  mention  was  made  of  the 
trunks,  consequently  I  began  to  lift 
the  mortgage  from  my  life  and  breathe 
easier. 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  35 

On  the  way  out  Tacks  left  a  small 
parcel  with  one  of  the  hall  boys  with 
instructions  to  hand  it  to  the  janitor  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"It's  a  little  present  for  the  janitor 
in  loving  remembrance  of  his  mem 
ory,"  Tacks  explained  with  something 
that  sounded  like  a  catch  in  his  voice. 

"Hasn't  that  boy  a  lovely  disposi 
tion  ?"  Aunt  Martha  beamed  on  Tacks ; 
"to  be  so  forgiving  to  the  janitor  after 
the  horrid  man  had  sworn  at  him  and 
blamed  him  for  putting  a  cat  in  the 
dumb  waiter  and  sending  it  up  to  the 
nervous  lady  on  the  seventh  floor  who 
abominated  cats  and  who  screamed 
and  fell  over  in  a  tub  of  suds  when  she 
opened  the  dumb-waiter  door  to  get 
her  groceries  and  the  cat  jumped  at 
her.  Mercy!  how  can  the  boy  be  so 
generous !" 

Tacks  bore  up  bravely  under  this 
panegyric  of  praise  and  his  face  wore 
a  rapt  expression  which  amounted  al 
most  to  religious  fervor. 


36  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

"What  did  you  give  the  janitor, 
Angel-Face  ?"  I  asked. 

"Only  just  another  remembrance," 
Tacks  answered,  solemnly.  "I  hap 
pened  to  find  a  poor,  little  dead  mouse 
under  the  gas  range  and  I  thought  I'd 
farewell  the  janitor  with  it." 

Aunt  Martha  sighed  painfully  and 
Uncle  Peter  chuckled  inwardly  like  a 
mechanical  toy  hen. 

On  the  train  out  to  Jiggersville 
Clara  J.  was  a  picture  entitled,  "The 
Joy  of  Living" — kind  regards  to  Mrs. 
Pat  Campbell ;  Ibsen  please  write. 

As  for  me  with  every  revolution  of 
the  wheels  I  grew  more  and  more  like 
a  half  portion  of  chipped  beef. 

"Oh,  John !"  said  Clara  J.,  her  voice 
shrill  with  excitement;  "I  forgot  to 
tell  you !  I  left  my  key  with  Mother 
and  she's  going  to  superintend  the 
packing  of  the  furniture  this  after 
noon.  By  evening  she  expects  to  have 
everything  loaded  in  the  van  and  we 
won't  have  to  wait  any  time  for  our 
trunks  and  things!" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  37 

"Great  Scott!"  I  yelled;  "maybe 
you  won't  like  the  house !  Maybe  it's 
only  a  shanty  with  holes  in  the  roof — 
er,  I  mean,  maybe  you'll  be  disappoint 
ed  with  the  lay-out!  What's  the 
blithering  sense  of  being  in  such  a 
consuming  fever  about  moving  the 
fiendish  furniture?  I'm  certain  you'll 
hate  the  very  sight  of  this  corn-crib 
out  among  the  ant  hills.  Can't  you 
back-pedal  on  the  furniture  gag  and 
give  yourself  a  chance  to  hear  the  an 
swer  to  what  you  ask  yourself? 

Clara  J.  looked  tearfully  at  me  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  went  over  and  sat 
with  Aunt  Martha  and  told  her  how 
glad  she  was  we  were  moving  to  the 
country  where  the  pure  air  would  no 
doubt  have  a  soothing  effect  on  my 
nerves  because  I  certainly  had  grown 
irritable  of  late. 

At  last  we  reached  the  little  old  log 
cabin  down  the  lane  and  after  the  first 
glimpse  I  knew  it  was  all  off. 

The   place   I    had   borrowed    from 


3&  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

Bunch  for  a  few  minutes  was  a  dream, 
all  right,  all  right. 

With  its  beautiful  lawns  and  its 
glistening  gravelled  walks;  with  a 
modern  house  perfect  in  every  detail; 
with  its  murmuring  brooklet  rushing 
away  into  a  perspective  of  nodding 
green  trees  and  with  the  bright  sun 
shine  smiling  a  welcome  over  all  it 
made  a  picture  calculated  to  charm  the 
most  hardened  city  crab  that  ever 
crawled  away  from  the  cover  of  the 
skyscrapers. 

As  for  Clara  J.  she  simply  threw  up 
both  hands  and  screamed  for  help.  She 
danced  and  yelled  with  delight.  Then 
she  hugged  and  kissed  me  with  a 
thousand  reiterated  thanks  for  my 
glorious  present. 

I  felt  as  joyous  as  a  jelly  fish.  Ten- 
legged  microbes  began  to  climb  into 
my  pores.  Everything  I  had  in  my 
system  rushed  to  my  head.  I  could 
see  myself  in  the  giggle-giggle  ward 
in  a  bat  house,  playing  I  was  the  king 
of  England. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  39 

I  was  a  joke  turned  upside  down. 

After  they  had  examined  every  nook 
and  cranny  of  the  place  and  had  talked 
themselves  hoarse  with  delight  I  called 
them  all  up  on  the  front  piazza,  for  the 
purpose  of  putting  out  their  lights  with 
my  ghost  story. 

I  figured  on  driving  them  all  back 
to  the  depot  with  about  four  para 
graphs  of  creepy  talk,  so  when  I  had 
them  huddled  I  began  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  to  raise  their  hair. 

I  told  them  that  no  doubt  they  had 
noticed  the  worried  expression  on  my 
face  and  explained  that  it  was  due 
chiefly  to  the  fact  that  I  had  learned 
quite  by  accident  that  this  beautiful 
place  was  haunted. 

Tacks  grew  so  excited  that  he 
dropped  a  garden  spade  off  the  piazza 
and  into  a  hot  house  below,  breaking 
seven  panes  of  glass,  but  the  others 
only  smiled  indulgently  and  I  went  on. 

I  jumped  head  first  into  my  most 
blood-curdling  story  and  related  in  de- 


40  BACK   TO  THE   WOODS. 

tail  how  a  murder  had  been  committed 
on  the  very  site  the  house  was  built  on 
and  how  a  fierce  bewhiskered  spirit 
roamed  the  premises  at  night  and  de 
manded  vengeance.  I  described  in 
awful  words  the  harrowing  spectacle 
and  all  I  got  at  the  finish  was  the  hoot 
from  Uncle  Peter. 

"Poor  John,"  said  Clara  J.,  "I  had 
no  idea  you  were  so  run  down.  Why, 
you're  almost  on  the  verge  of  nervous 
prostration.  And  how  thoughtful  you 
were  to  pick  out  a  haunted  house,  for 
I  do  love  ghosts.  Didn't  you  know 
that?  I'll  tell  you  what  let's  do.  I'll 
give  a  prize  for  the  first  one  who  sees 
and  speaks  to  this  unhappy  spirit — 
won't  it  be  jolly?  Where  are  you  go 
ing,  John  ?" 

"Me,  to  the  undertakers — I  mean  I 
must  run  back  to  town.  That  tele 
gram  this  morning — important  busi 
ness — forgot  all  about  it — see  you  la 
ter — don't  breathe  till  I  get  back — I 
mean,  don't  live  till  I — Oh !  the  devil !" 


BACK  TO   THE   WOODS.  41 

Just  then  I  fell  over  the  lawn  mow 
er,  picked  myself  up  hastily  and  rushed 
off  to  town  to  find  Bunch  for  I  was 
certainly  up  against  it  good  and  hard. 


CHAPTER  III. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  BURGLAR. 

WHEN  finally  I  located 
Bunch  and  told  him  the 
bitter  truth  he  acted  like 
a  zee-zee  boy  in  a  Wheel  House. 

Laugh !  Say !  he  just  threw  out  his 
chest  and  cackled  a  solo  that  fairly 
bit  its  way  through  my  anatomy. 

Every  once  in  a  while  he'd  give  me 
the  red-faced  glare  and  snicker,  "Oh, 
you  mark !  You  Cincherine !  You  to 
the  seltzer  bottle — fizz ! — fizz !  The 
only  and  original  Wheeze  Puller,  not ! 
You're  all  right — backwards!" 

Then  he'd  throw  his  ears  back  and 
let  a  chortle  out  of  his  thirst-teaser 
that  made  the  neighborhood  jump 
sideways  and  rubber  for  a  cop. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he 
asked  me  when  presently  his  face  grew 
too  tired  to  hold  any  more  wrinkles. 


Uncle  Peter— the 

Original  Trust  Tamer. — Page  42. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  43 

"Give  me  the  count,"  I  sighed ;  "I'm 
down  and  out." 

"Have  you  no  plan  at  all  ?"  inquired 
Bunch. 

"Plan,  nothing,"  I  said ;  "every  time 
I  try  to  think  of  a  plan  my  brain  gets 
bashful  and  hides.  There's  nothing  in 
my  noddle  now  but  a  headache." 

"Well,"  said  Bunch,  "I'll  throw  a 
wire  at  my  sister  and  tell  her  not  to 
move  out  to  Jiggersville  until  day  af 
ter  to-morrow.  In  the  mean  time  we'll 
have  to  get  a  crowbar  and  pry  your 
family  circle  loose  from  my  premises. 
Nothing  doing  in  the  ghost  business, 
eh?" 

"Nothing,"  I  answered,  mournful 
ly;  "I  couldn't  coax  a  shiver." 

"A  fire  wouldn't  do,,  would  it?" 
Bunch  suggested,  thoughtfully. 

"It  wouldn't  do  for  you,  unless  you 
are  aces  with  the  insurance  Indians,"  I 
answered. 

"We-o-o-u-w !"  yelled  Bunch,  "I 
have  it — burglars !" 


44  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"Burglars!"  I  repeated,  mechan 
ically. 

"Sure !  it's  a  pipe !"  Bunch  went  on 
with  enthusiasm.  "You  will  play 
Spike  Hennessy  and  I'll  be  Gumshoe 
Charlie.  We'll  disguise  ourselves 
with  whisJ'8rs  and  break  into  the  house 
about  2  o'clock  in  the  morning.  We'll 
arouse  the  sleeping  inmates,  shoot  our 
bullet-holders  in  the  ceiling  once  or 
twice  and  hand  them  enough  excite 
ment  to  make  them  gallop  back  to 
town  on  the  first  train.  Do  you  fol 
low  me,  eh,  what  ?" 

"Not  me,  Bunch,"  I  shook  my  head 
sadly.  "Nix  on  the  burgle  for  yours 
truly.  I  must  take  the  next  train  back 
to  the  woods.  Otherwise  wee  wifey 
may  suspect  something  and  begin  to 
pass  me  out  the  zero  language.  But  I 
like  the  burglar  idea.  Couldn't  you  do 
it  as  a  monologue  ?" 

"What!  all  by  my  lonesome?"  cried 
Bunch.  "Say!  John,  doesn't  that 
sound  like  making  me  work  a  trifle  too 
hard  to  get  my  own  goods  back  ?" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  45 

I  sighed  and  looked  as  helpless  as 
a  nut  under  the  hammer. 

Bunch  laughed  again.  "Oh,  very 
well,"  he  said,  "I  see  I'm  the  only  life- 
saver  on  duty  so  I'll  do  a  single  spe 
cialty  and  pull  you  out  of  the  pickle 
bottle." 

I  grasped  my  rescuer's  hand  and 
shook  it  warmly  in  silence. 

"Leave  a  front  window  open," 
Bunch  directed,  "and  somewhere 
around  two  o'clock  I'll  squeeze 
through." 

"I'll  have  it  worked  up  good  and 
proper,"  I  said,  eagerly.  "I'll  throw 
out  dark  hints  all  the  evening  and 
have  the  bunch  ready  to  quiver  when 
the  crash  comes.  As  soon  as  I  hear 
your  signal  I'll  rush  bravely  down 
stairs  and  you  shoot  the  ceiling.  I'll 
give  you  a  struggle  and  chase  you  out 
side.  Then  I'll  run  you  down  behind 
the  barn.  There,  free  from  observa 
tion,  you  can  shoot  a  couple  of  holes 
in  my  coat  so  that  I  can  produce  evi 
dence  of  a  fierce  fight,  and  then  you  to 


46  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

the  tall  timber.  I'll  crawl  breathlessly 
back  to  my  palpitating  household,  and, 
displaying  my  wounded  coat,  declare 
everything  off.  I'll  refuse  to  live  any 
longer  in  a  house  where  murder  and 
sudden  death  occupy  the  spare  room. 
It  looks  to  me  like  a  cinchalorum, 
Bunch,  a  regular  cinchalorum !" 

"It  sounds  good,"  Bunch  acqui 
esced,  "and  I'll  give  you  an  imitation 
of  the  best  little  amateur  cracksman 
that  ever  swung  a  jimmy.  I'll  take  a 
late  train  out  and  hang  around  till  it's 
time  to  ring  the  curtain  up.  By  the 
way,  are  there  any  revolvers  on  the 
premises  ?" 

"Not  a  gun,"  I  answered,  "not  even 
an  ice-pick.  Uncle  Peter  won't  show 
fight.  All  he'll  show  will  be  a  blonde 
night  gown  cutting  across  lots  to  beat 
the  breeze.  Aunt  Martha  will  climb 
to  the  attic,  Clara  J.  will  be  busy  do 
ing  a  scream  solo,  and  Tacks  will 
crawl  under  the  bed  and  pull  the  bed 
after  him.  There'll  be  no  interfer 
ence,  Bunch;  it's  easy  money!" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  47 

With  this  complete  understanding 
we  parted  and  I  hustled  back  to  Jig- 
gersville. 

I  found  the  family  still  delirious 
with  delight  with  the  exception  of 
Clara  J.  whose  enthusiasm  had  been 
dampened  by  my  sudden  departure. 

My  reappearance  brought  her  back 
to  earth,  however,  and  in  the  presence 
of  so  many  new  excitements  she  didn't 
even  question  me  with  regard  to  my 
city  trip. 

As  the  evening  wore  on  my  nerv 
ousness  increased  and  I  began  to  won 
der  if  Bunch  would  really  turn  the 
trick  or  give  me  the  loud  snicker  and 
leave  me  flat. 

I  had  gone  too  far  now  to  confess 
everything  to  Clara  J.  She'd  never 
forgive  me. 

If  I  told  her  the  facts  in  the  case  the 
long  Arctic  Winter  Night  would  set 
in,  and  I'd  be  playing  an  icicle  on  the 
window  frame. 

I  felt  as  lonely  as  a  coal  scuttle  dur 
ing  the  strike. 


48  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

About  six  o'clock  Uncle  Peter 
waded  into  the  sitting  room,  flushed 
and  happy  as  a  school  boy.  "I've  just 
left  the  garden,"  he  chuckled. 

"No,  you  haven't,"  I  said,  glancing 
at  his  shoes ;  "you've  brought  most  of 
it  in  here  with  you." 

I  never  touched  him.  The  old  gen 
tleman  sat  down  in  a  loud  rocker  and 
began  to  tell  me  a  lot  of  things  I  didn't 
want  to  hear.  Uncle  Peter  always  in 
tersperses  his  remarks  on  current 
topics  with  bits  of  parboiled  philoso 
phy  that  make  one  want  to  get  up  and 
drive  him  through  the  carpet  with  a 
tack  hammer.  When  it  comes  to  wise 
saws  and  proverbial  stunts  Uncle 
Peter  has  Solomon  backed  up  in  the 
corner. 

"John,"  he  said,  "this  country  life 
is  great.  Early  to  bed  and  early  to 
rise  makes  a  man's  stomach  digest 
mince  pies — how's  that?  Notice  the 
air  out  here  ?  How  pure  and  fresh  and 
bracing !  You  ought  to  go  out  and  run 
a  mile,  John!" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  49 

"I'd  like  to  run  ten  miles,"  I  an 
swered,  truthfully. 

"Exercise,  that's  the  essence  of  life, 
my  boy !"  he  continued.  "I  firmly  be 
lieve  I  could  run  five  miles  to-day 
without  straining  a  muscle." 

I  laughed  internally  and  thought  of 
the  glorious  opportunity  he'd  have  be 
fore  the  morning  broke. 

"You  may  or  may  not  know,  John," 
the  old  gentleman  kept  on,  "that  I  was 
a  remarkably  fine  swordsman  in  my 
younger  days.  Parry,  thrust,  cut, 
slash — heigho !  those  were  the  times. 
And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  still 
able  to  hold  my  own  with  the  sword 
or  pistol.  I  found  a  sword  hanging 
on  the  wall  in  the  hall  to-day  and  I've 
been  practising  a  few  swings." 

A  vision  of  Uncle  Peter  running  a 
rusty  sword  into  the  interior  depart 
ment  of  the  disguised  and  disgusted 
Bunch  rose  before  me,  but  I  blew  it 
away  with  a  laugh. 

"He  laughs  best  who  laughs  in  his 
sleeve,"  chuckled  the  old  party.  "Now 


5O  BACK   TO  THE   WOODS. 

that  we're  out  in  the  country  all  of  us 
should  learn  to  handle  a  sword  or  a 
pistol.  It  gives  us  self  reliance.  It's 
very  different  from  living  in  the  city, 
I  tell  you.  A  tramp  in  the  lock-up  is 
worth  two  in  the  kitchen.  I  shot  at  a 
mark  for  an  hour  to-day." 

"What  with  ?"   I  gasped. 

"With  a  bow  and  arrow  I  bought 
for  Tacks  yesterday  directly  I  learned 
we  were  coming  to  the  country.  I  hit 
the  bull's  eye  five  out  of  six  times.  An 
ounce  of  prevention  is  worth  two  hun 
dred  pounds  of  policemen,  you  know. 
Tacks  practised,  too,  and  drove  an  ar 
row  through  a  strange  man's  overalls 
and  was  chased  half  a  mile  for  his 
skill  in  marksmanship,  but,  as  I  said 
before,  the  exercise  will  do  him  good." 

"Where  do  you  keep  this  bow  and 
arrow?"  I  inquired,  with  a  studied  as 
sumption  of  carelessness. 

"To-night  I'll  keep  it  under  my  pil 
low.  Honi  soit  qui  oncle  Pierre, 
which  means,  evil  be  to  him  who  mon- 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  $1 

keys  with  Uncle  Peter,"  he  said,  sol 
emnly.  "To-morrow  I'm  going  to 
town  to  buy  a  bull  dog  revolver,  may 
be  a  bull  dog  and  a  revolver,  for  a  dog 
in  the  manger  is  the  noblest  Roman  of 
them  all." 

I  could  see  poor  Bunch  scooting 
across  the  lawn  with  a  bunch  of  ar 
rows  in  his  ramparts  and  Uncle  Peter 
behind,  prodding  his  citadel  with  a 
carving  knife. 

I  began  to  get  a  hunch  that  our  plan 
of  campaign  was  threatened  with  an 
attack  of  busy  Uncle  Peter,  and  I  had 
just  about  decided  to  remove  his  door 
key  and  lock  the  old  man  up  in  his 
room  when  Clara  J.  came  in  to  an 
nounce  dinner. 

Aunt  Martha  and  Clara  J.  had  col 
laborated  on  the  dinner  and  it  was  a 
success.  Uncle  Peter  said  so,  and  his 
appetite  is  one  of  those  brave  fighting 
machines  that  never  says  die  till  every 
plate  is  clean. 

I  was  so  nervous  I  couldn't  eat  a 
bite,  but  I  pleaded  a  toothache,  so  they 


52  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

all  gave  me  the  sympathetic  stare  and 
passed  me  up. 

We  went  to  bed  early  and  I  re 
hearsed  mentally  the  stage  business 
for  the  drama  about  to  be  enacted 
when  Bunch  crept  through  the  picket 
lines. 

About  midnight  a  dog  in  the  neigh- 
hood  began  to  hurl  forth  a  series  of 
the  most  distressing  bow-bows  I  ever 
heard.  I  arose,  put  up  the  window 
and  looked  out. 

I  saw  a  tall  man  with  a  bunch  of 
whiskers  on  his  face  flying  across  the 
lot  pursued  by  a  black-and-tan  pup, 
which  snapped  eagerly  at  the  man's 
heels  and  seemed  determined  to  eat 
him  up  if  ever  the  runner  stopped  long 
enough. 

I  felt  in  my  bones  that  the  one  in 
the  lead  was  Bunch,  and  I  sighed 
deeply  and  went  back  to  bed. 

I  must  have  dropped  into  an  uneasy 
sleep  for  Clara  J.  was  tapping  me  on 
the  arm  when  I  started  up  and  asked 
the  answer. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  53 

"There's  somebody  in  the  house," 
she  whispered,  not  a  bit  frightened,  to 
my  surprise  and  dismay.  "Maybe  it's 
only  the  ghost  you  told  us  about — 
what  a  lark !" 

"Somebody  in  the  house,"  I  mut 
tered,  going  on  the  stage  blindly  to 
play  my  part;  "and  there  isn't  a  gun 
in  the  castle." 

"Yes  there  is,"  she  answered,  joy 
fully,  I  fancied;  "mother  brought 
father's  revolver  over  yesterday  and 
made  me  put  it  in  my  satchel.  She 
said  we  would  feel  safer  at  night  with 
it  in  the  house.  Do  let  me  shoot  him ; 
I  can  aim  straight,  indeed  I  can !  Why, 
John,  what  makes  you  tremble  so?" 

"I'm  not  trembling,  you  goose!"  I 
snarled ;  "I  can't  find  my  shoes,  that's 
all.  Doggone  if  I'm  going  to  live  in 
a  joint  like  this  with  ghosts  and  burg 
lars  all  over  the  place." 

Just  then  an  alarming  yell  ascended 
from  the  regions  below,  followed  by 
a  crash  and  a  series  of  the  most  pic- 


54  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

turesque,  sulphur-lined  oaths  that 
mortal  man  ever  gave  vent  to. 

It  was  Bunch.  His  trademark  was 
on  every  word.  I  could  recognize  his 
brimstone  vocabulary  with  my  eyes 
shut. 

But  what  dire  fate  had  befallen 
him?  Surely,  not  even  an  amateur 
cracksman  would  give  himself  and  the 
whole  snap  away  unless  the  provoca 
tion  was  great. 

Lights  began  to  appear  all  over  the 
house.  Aunt  Martha  in  a  weird  make 
up  came  out  of  her  room  screaming, 
"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  followed 
by  Uncle  Peter  and  his  trusty  bow 
and  arrow. 

I  began  to  pray.  It  was  all  over. 
A  rosewood  casket  for  Bunch.  Me 
for  the  Morgue. 

Just  as  I  was  ready  to  rush  down 
to  investigate,  Tacks  came  bounding 
up  the  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time,  clad 
only  in  his  nightie. 

Up  the  stairs,  mind  you !  The  nerve 
of  that  kid ! 


BACK  TO   THE   WOODS.  55 

"Gi'me  the  prize,  sister !"  he  yelled ; 
"I  caught  the  ghost !   I  caught  him !" 
"What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  said,  shak 
ing  him. 

Tacks  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 
"You  know  they's  a  trap  door  in  the 
hall  so's  to  get  down  in  the  cellar  and 
it  ain't  finished  yet,  so  this  evening  I 
took  the  door  up  and  laid  heavy  paper 
on  it  so's  if  the  ghost  walked  on  it  he'd 
go  through  and  he  did,  and  I  get  the 
prize,  don't  I,  sister?" 

I  rushed  down  to  the  scene  of  the 
explosion,  followed  by  my  excited 
household. 

Leaning  over  the  yawning  cellar 
trap  door  I  yelled,  "Who's  down 
there?" 

"Oh !  you  go  to  hell !"  came  back 
the  voice  of  the  disgusted  Bunch, 
whereupon  Aunt  Martha  almost  faint 
ed,  while  Uncle  Peter  loaded  his  bow 
and  arrow  and  prepared  to  sell  his 
life  dearly. 

Great  Scott !  what  a  situation !  The 
man  who  owned  the  house  nursing  his 


5 6  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

bruises  in  the  muddy  cellar  while  the 
bunch  of  interlopers  above  him  clam 
ored  for  his  life. 

While  I  puzzled  my  dizzy  think- 
factory  for  a  way  out  of  the  dilemma 
there  came  a  terrific  knock  at  the 
door  and  Tacks  promptly  opened  it. 

"Have  you  got  him  ?  Have  you  got 
him?"  inquire'd  the  elongated  and  ca 
daverous  specimen  of  humanity  who 
burst  into  the  hall  and  stared  at  us. 

"I  seen  him  early  this  evening 
a'hangin'  around  these  here  premises 
and  I  ups  and  chases  him  twicet,  but 
the  skunk  outrun  me,"  the  newcomer 
gurgled,  as  he  excitedly  swung  a  po 
liceman's  billy  the  size  of  a  fence  rail. 

"Then  I  seen  the  lights  here  and 
says  I,  'they  has  him' !  Perduce  the 
maleyfactor  till  I  trot  him  to  the  lock 
up  !"  and  with  this  the  minion  of  the 
law  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  prepared 
for  action. 

"I  presume  you  are  the  chief  of  po 
lice?"  inquired  Uncle  Peter,  with  an 
affable  smile. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  57 

"I'm  all  the  police  they  is  and  my 
name  is  Harmony  Diggs,  and  they's 
no  buggular  livin'  can  get  out'n  my 
clutches  oncet  I  gits  these  boys  on 
him,"  the  visitor  shouted,  waving  an 
antiquated  pair  of  handcuffs  excitedly 
in  the  air. 

Tacks  watched  him  open-mouthed. 
That  boy  was  having  the  time  of  his 
life  and  it  would  have  pleased  me  im 
measurably  to  paddle  him  to  sleep 
with  Harmony's  night  stick. 

"I  caught  him !"  Tacks  cried  in  ex 
ultant  tones  when  the  village  copper 
looked  his  way;  "he's  down  there." 

"Down  there,  eh?"  snorted  the 
country  Sherlock,  getting  on  his  knees 
and  peering  into  the  depths,  but  just 
then  Bunch  handed  him  a  handful  of 
hard  mud  which  located  temporarily 
over  Harmony's  left  eye  and  put  his 
optic  on  the  blink. 

With  the  other  eye,  however,  Mr. 
Diggs  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  step  lad 
der,  which  he  immediately  lowered 
through  the  trap,  and  drawing  a  mur- 


58  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

derous  looking  revolver  from  his 
pocket,  commanded  Bunch  to  come  up 
or  be  shot. 

Bunch  decided  to  come  up.  I  didn't 
hold  the  watch  on  him,  but  I  figure 
it  took  him  about  seven-sixteenths  of 
a  second  to  make  the  decision. 

As  the  criminal  slowly  emerged 
from  the  cellar  the  spectators  stood 
back,  spellbound  and  breathless ;  Aunt 
Martha  with  a  long  tin  dipper  raised 
in  an  attitude  of  defense,  and  Uncle 
Peter  with  the  bow  and  arrow  ready 
for  instant  use. 

These  war-like  precautions  were 
unnecessary,  however.  Bunch  was  a 
sight.  His  clothing  had  accumulated 
all  the  mud  in  the  unfinished  cellar 
and  his  false  whiskers  were  skewed 
around,  giving  his  face  the  expression 
of  a  prize  gorilla. 

Bunch  looked  at  me  reproachfully, 
but  never  opened  his  head.  Say!  if 
ever  there  was  a  dead  game  sport, 
Bunch  Jefferson  is  the  answer. 

He  didn't  even  whimper  when  the 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  59 

village  Hawkshaw  snapped  the  brace 
lets  on  his  wrist  and  said,  "Come  on, 
Mr.  Buggular!  This  here's  a  fine 
night's  work  for  everybody  in  this 
neighborhood  because  you've  been  a 
source  of  pesterment  around  here  for 
six  months.  If  you  don't  get  ten 
years,  Mr.  Buggular,  then  I  ain't  no 
guess  maker.  Come  along;  good 
night  to  you,  one  and  all;  that  there 
boy  that  catched  this  buggular  ought 
to  get  rewarded  nice!" 

"He  will  be,"  I  said  mentally,  as 
Mr.  Diggs  led  the  suffering  Bunch 
away  to  the  Bastile. 

"I've  got  to  see  that  villain  landed 
in  a  cell,"  I  said  to  Clara  J.  as  the 
door  closed  on  the  victor  and  van 
quished. 

"Do,  John!"  she  answered;  "but 
don't  be  too  hard  on  the  poor  fellow. 
You  can't  tell  what  temptations  may 
have  led  him  astray.  I  certainly  am 
disappointed  for  I  was  sure  it  was  the 
ghost.  Anyway,  the  burglar  had 
whiskers  like  the  ghost's,  didn't  he?" 


60  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

I  didn't  stop  to  reply,  but  grabbing 
my  coat  rushed  away  to  formulate 
some  plan  to  get  Bunch  out  of  hock. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  COUNTRY  COP. 

AHEAD  of  me,  plodding  along 
the  pike  under  the  moon 
light,  were  Bunch  and  his 
cadaverous  captor,  the  former  bowed 
in  sorrow  or  anger,  probably  both, 
and  the  latter  with  head  erect,  haughty 
as  a  Roman  conqueror. 

Bunch's  make-up  was  a  troubled 
dream.  Over  a  pair  of  hand-me- 
down  trousers,  eight  sizes  too  large 
for  him,  he  wore  a  three-dollar  ulster. 
On  his  head  was  an  automobile  cap, 
and  his  face  was  covered  with  a  bunch 
of  eelgrass  three  feet  deep.  He  was 
surely  all  the  money. 

As  I  drew  near  I  could  hear  Mr. 
Diggs  expatiating  on  crime  in  general 
and  housebreaking  in  particular,  and 
I  fancied  I  could  also  hear  Bunch 
boiling  and  seething  within. 


62  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"Mr.  Buggular,"  Diggs  was  saying, 
"I  don't  know  just  what  your  home 
trainin'  was  as  a  child,  but  tfiey's  a 
screw  loose  somewhere  or  you'd 
a'never  been  brought  to  this  here  har- 
rowful  perdickyment,  nohow.  I 
s'pose  you  jest  started  in  nat'rally  to 
be  a  heenyus  maleyfactor  early  in  life, 
huh  ?  You  needn't  to  answer  if  you're 
afeared  it'll  incrimigate  you,  but  I 
s'pose  you  took  to  it  when  a  boy, 
pickin'  pockets  or  suthin'  like  that, 
huh?" 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  you  old  goat,  and 
don't  bother  me !"  snapped  Bunch, 
just  as  I  joined  them. 

"A  dangerous  maleyfactor,"  said 
Diggs  to  me,  as  he  tightened  his  grip 
on  Bunch's  arm;  "but  they  ain't  no 
call  for  you  to  assist  the  course  of  jus 
tice,  because  if  the  dern  critter  starts 
to  run  I'll  pump  him  chuck  full  of 
lead.  He's  been  a'tellin'  me  he  started 
on  the  downward  path  to  predition  as 
a  child-stealer."  , 

"I  told  you  nothing,  you   old    tad- 


Aunt  Martha — a  Short,  Stout 
Bundle  of  Good   Nature. — Page  61. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  63 

pole,"  shrieked  Bunch,  unable  to  con 
tain  himself  longer. 

"Very  well,"  said  Harmony,  sooth 
ingly,  "they  ain't  no  call  for  you  to 
say  nothin'  more  that'll  incrimigate 
you  before  the  bar  of  justice.  Steady, 
now,  or  I'll  tap  you  with  this  here 
cane !" 

"Brace  up,  good  old  sport;  I'll  get 
you  out  of  this  in  a  jiffy,"  I  whispered 
to  Bunch  at  the  first  opportunity,  and 
he  gave  me  a  cold-storage  look  that 
chased  the  chills  all  over  me. 

Presently  we  arrived  at  the  little 
brick  structure  which  Jiggersville 
proudly  called  its  calaboose,  and  after 
much  fumbling  of  keys,  Mr.  Diggs 
opened  the  jackpot  and  we  all  stayed. 

The  yap  policeman  was  for  taking 
Bunch  right  back  to  the  donjon  cell  in 
the  rear,  but  with  a  $5  bill  I  secured 
a  stay  of  proceedings. 

My  forehead  was  damp  with  per 
spiration  so  I  took  off  my  hat  and  laid 
it  on  the  bench  in  the  little  court 


64  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

room  where  Bunch  sat  moodily  and 
with  bowed  head. 

Then  I  coaxed  the  rural  Vidocq  over 
in  the  corner  and  gave  him  a  game 
of  talk  that  I  thought  would  warm  his 
heart,  but  he  listened  in  dumbness  and 
couldn't  see  "no  sense  in  believing  the 
maleyfactor  was  anythin'  more'n  a 
derned  cuss,  nohow !" 

"I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
we  have  made  a  mistake,"  I  said  to 
Harmony  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "From 
an  envelope  dropped  by  this  party  in 
my  house  I  am  lead  to  believe  that  he's 
a  respectable  gentleman  who  entered 
my  premises  quite  by  mistake." 

The  chin  whiskers  owned  and  en 
gineered  by  Diggs  bobbed  up  and 
down  as  he  chewed  a  reflective  cud, 
but  he  couldn't  see  the  matter  in  my 
light  at  all. 

I  had  used  all  kinds  of  arguments 
and  was  just  about  to  give  up  in  de 
spair  when  a  voice  in  the  doorway 
caused  us  both  to  turn. 

There   stood    Bunch   Jefferson,  the 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  5 

real  fellow,  looking  as  fresh  as  a 
daisy. 

"What's  the  trouble,  John?"  he 
asked,  smiling  benignly  on  Diggs. 

While  I  was  talking  to  the  repre 
sentative  of  the  law,  Mr.  Slick  saw 
his  opportunity  and  grabbed  it  by  the 
hind  leg.  He  had  quietly  reached  the 
door,  and  once  outside  the  sledding 
was  excellent. 

Bunch  had  his  business  suit  on  un 
der  the  burglar  make-up.  It  didn't 
take  him  two  minutes  to  work  the 
shine  darbies  over  his  hands.  He 
then  peeled  off  the  ulster  and  the  tup- 
peny  trousers,  and  throwing  these  and 
the  Svengalis  over  the  fence,  he  was 
home  again  from  the  Bad  Lands. 

The  transformation  scene  was  made 
complete  by  the  fact  that  Bunch  was 
now  wearing  my  hat. 

In  answer  to  Bunch's  question,  the 
redoubtable  Diggs  smiled  indulgently 
and  said  with  pride-choked  tones,  "A 
maleyfactor,  sir,  caught  in  the  meshes 


66  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

of  the  law  and  hauled  before  this  here 
trybune  of  justice  by  these  hands!" 

The  eagle  eye  of  Diggs  was  now 
triumphantly  sighted  along  the  arm 
and  over  the  bony  hand  to  where  the 
criminal  was  supposed  to  be,  but  when 
the  gaze  finally  rested  on  an  empty 
bench  the  expression  of  pained  sur 
prise  on  the  old  man-hunter's  map  was 
calculated  to  make  a  hen  cackle. 

Diggs  rushed  over  to  the  bench, 
turned  it  upside  down,  looked  behind 
the  chairs,  and  then,  emitting  a  roar 
that  rattled  the  rafters,  he  hustled 
back  to  see  if  by  any  chance  the  pris 
oner  had  locked  himself  up  in  a  cell. 

Bunch  gave  the  old  geezer  the  min- 
nehaha  and  yelled,  "Say !  you  with  the 
me-ya-ya's  on  the  chin !  Did  some 
body  give  you  the  hot-foot  and  make 
a  quick  exit?" 

Diggs  was  now  in  full  eruption  and 
heavy  showers  of  Reub  lava  rose  from 
his  vocal  organs  and  fell  all  over  the 
place,  while  he  thrashed  around  the 
calaboose  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  67 

"Maybe  you're  sending  out  a  gen 
eral  alarm  about  that  human  meteor 
that  passed  me  on  the  pike  a  few  min 
utes  ago?"  Bunch  suggested. 

Diggs  turned  and  eyed  him  in  open- 
mouthed  silence. 

"A  mutt  with  a  pink  ulster  and  one 
of  those  pancakes  on  his  head  like  the 
drivers  of  the  gasoline  carts  wear," 
Bunch  suggested. 

"It's  him!  it's  the  maley f actor !" 
exclaimed  Harmony,  tightening  his 
grip  on  the  night  stick;  "which  way 
did  the  denied  cuss  go?" 

Bunch  pointed  due  south-east,  and 
with  a  howl  of  rage  Diggs  sprang 
forward  and  bounced  down  the  pike 
like  a  hungry  kangaroo  on  its  way  to 
a  lunch  counter. 

I  began  to  wrap  up  my  enjoyment 
and  send  it  forth  in  short  gurgles  of 
merriment  until  Bunch  pressed  the 
button  and  the  scene  was  changed  to 
Greenland's  Icy  Mountains. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  he  sneered;  "reg 
ular  circus,  with  yours  in  haste,  Bunch 


68  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

Jefferson,  to  do  the  grand  and  lofty 
tumbling!  I'm  the  Patsy,  oh,  maybe! 
It  was  a  fine  play,  all  right,  but  I 
didn't  expect  you  to  stack  the  cards ! " 

"On  the  level,  Bunch,  believe  me,  it 
wasn't  my  fault,"  I  spluttered. 

"Not  your  fault,"  he  snapped  back ; 
"then  I  suppose  it  was  mine!  I  sup 
pose  I  fell  down  the  elevator  shaft  just 
to  please  mother,  eh?  Maybe  you 
think  I  dropped  into  the  excavation 
just  to  pass  the  time  away?  Have  you 
an  idea  that  I  dove  down  into  the 
earth  because  I  wanted  to  get  back  to 
the  mines?  Wasn't  your  fault,  in 
deed!  Maybe  you  think  I  fell  in  the 
well  simply  because  I  wanted  to  give 
an  imitation  of  the  old  oaken  bucket, 
yes?" 

I  tried  to  tell  him  all  about  Tacks 
and  the  ghost  story,  but  he  wouldn't 
stand  for  it. 

"You  should  have  been  waiting  for 
me  on  the  stairs,"  he  argued,  un 
reasonably,  rubbing  one  of  the  bruises 
in  his  choice  collection.  "Didn't  you 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  69 

catch  me  early  in  the  evening  being 
chased  from  pillar  to  post  by  every 
thing  in  the  neighborhood  that  had 
legs  long  enough  to  run?  When  I 
tried  to  hide  in  the  corner  of  a  farm 
over  there,  a  bull  dog  came  up  on  rub 
ber  shoes  and  bit  his  initials  on  some 
of  my  personal  property  before  I 
could  crawl  through  the  fence.  Every 
time  I  showed  up  on  the  pike  that  hu 
man  accident  that  breathes  like  a  man 
and  talks  like  a  rabbit  chased  me  eight 
miles  there  and  back.  The  first  time  I 
tried  to  approach  the  infernal  house  I 
fell  over  a  grindstone  and  signed 
checks  in  the  gravel  with  my  nose. 
Hereafter,  when  you  want  a  burglar, 
pick  somebody  your  own  size.  I'm  go 
ing  to  hunt  a  hospital  and  get  sewed 
together  again." 

I  put  on  all  steam  and  tried  to 
square  myself,  but  Bunch  only  shook 
his  head  and  said  I  was  outlawed. 

"You  can't  run  on  my  race  track," 
he  exclaimed  as  he  started  for  the  de- 


70  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

pot;  "that  last  race  was  crooked  and 
you  stood  in  with  the  dope  mixer." 

I  watched  him  down  the  hill  until 
he  disappeared  in  the  station,  then,  sad 
at  heart,  I  trudged  back  to  the  old 
homestead  that  had  caused  all  my 
trouble. 

It  was  now  broad  daylight,  but  no 
where  within  my  line  of  vision  could 
I  get  a  peep  of  the  doughty  Diggs. 

No  doubt  he  was  still  cutting  across 
lots  trying  to  head  off  the  "maleyfac- 
tor."  ' 


Tacks — the  Boy 
Disaster. — Page  71. 


CHAPTER  V. 

JOHN  HENRY'S  TELEGRAM. 

WHEN  I  reached  the  cot 
tage  I  found  all  the 
members  of  my  house 
hold  dressed  for  the  day,  and  lined 
up  on  the  piazza,  eager  for  news  from 
the  battlefield. 

"Gee  whiz !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Peter, 
"the  boy  is  bareheaded!  Where's 
your  hat,  John?" 

"Mercy!  I  hope  you're  not 
scalped!"  Aunt  Martha  cried,  sym 
pathetically. 

I  explained  that  the  desperado  put 
up  a  stiff  fight  against  Diggs  and  my 
self  and,  warming  up  to  the  subject,  I 
went  into  the  details  of  a  hand  to  hand 
struggle  that  made  them  all  shiver  and 
blink  their  lanterns. 

When  finally  I  finished  with  the 
statement  that  the  robber  knocked  us 


72  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

both  down  and  had  made  a  successful 
break  for  liberty,  Uncle  Peter  gave 
expression  to  a  yell  of  dismay,  and 
once  again  he  and  his  bow  and  arrow 
held  a  reunion. 

Tacks  suggested  that  we  burn  the 
house  down  so  the  burglar  wouldn't  be 
able  to  find  it  if  he  came  around  after 
dark.  I  thought  extremely  well  of  the 
suggestion,  but  didn't  dare  say  so. 

Aunt  Martha  had  just  about  de 
cided  to  untie  a  fit  of  hysterics,  when 
Clara  J.  reached  for  the  kerosene 
bucket  and  threw  oil  on  the  troubled 
waters. 

"Let's  drop  all  this  nonsense  about 
burglars  and  ghosts  and  go  to  break 
fast,"  she  suggested.  "I  don't  believe 
there  ever  was  a  ghost  within  sixty 
miles  of  this  house,  and  to  save  my 
soul  I  couldn't  be  afraid  of  a  burglar 
whose  specialty  consisted  of  falling  in 
the  cellar  and  swearing  till  help 
came  I" 

After  breakfast  I  was  dragged 
away  to  the  brook  to  fish  for  lamb 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  73 

chops  or  whatever  kind  of  an  animal 
it  was  that  Uncle  Peter  and  Tacks  de 
cided  would  bite.  Aunt  Martha 
posted  off  to  the  city  on  urgent  busi 
ness,  the  nature  of  which  she  carefully 
concealed  from  everybody. 

Clara  J.  said  she'd  be  delighted  to 
have  the  house  all  to  herself  for  an 
hour  or  two,  there  were  so  many 
rooms  to  look  through  and  so  many 
plans  to  make. 

Uncle  Peter  gave  her  his  bow  and 
arrow  with  full  instructions  how  to 
shoot  if  danger  threatened,  and  Tacks 
carefully  rubbed  the  steps  leading  up 
to  the  piazza  with  soap  so  the  burglar 
would  fall  and  break  his  neck.  Then 
the  little  shrimp  called  my  attention  to 
his  handiwork  and  demonstrated  its 
availability  by  slipping  thereon  him 
self  and  going  the  whole  distance  on 
his  face.  He  didn't  break  his  neck, 
however,  so  to  my  mind  his  burglar 
alarm  failed  to  make  good.  _ 

As  time  wore  on   I   felt  more  ana 


74  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

more  like  a  mock  turtle  being  led  to 
the  soup  house. 

The  fact  that  Bunch  was  sore  wor 
ried  me,  and  I  began  to  realize  that  it 
was  now  only  a  question  of  a  few 
hours  when  I'd  have  to  crawl  up  to 
Clara  J.  and  hand  in  my  resignation. 

Every  time  I  drew  a  picture  of  that 
scene  and  heard  myself  telling  her  I 
was  nothing  but  a  fawn-colored  four- 
flush  I  could  see  my  future  putting  on 
the  mitts  and  getting  ready  to  hand 
me  one. 

And  when  I  thought  of  the  dish  of 
fairy  tales  I  had  cooked  for  that  girl 
I  could  feel  something  running  around 
in  my  head  and  trying  to  hide.  I  sup 
pose  it  was  my  conscience. 

At  the  brook,  Uncle  Peter  began  to 
throw  out  hints  that  he  was  the  origi 
nal  lone  fisherman.  The  lobster  never 
lived  that  could  back  away  from  him, 
and  as  for  fly-casting,  well,  he  was 
Piscatorial  Peter,  the  Fancy  Fish 
Charmer  from  Fishkill. 

The  old  gentleman  is  very  rich,  but 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  75 

he  loves  to  live  around  with  his  rela 
tives,  not  because  he's  stingy,  but  sim 
ply  because  he  likes  them  and  knows 
they  are  good  listeners. 

Uncle  Peter  is  a  reformed  money 
maker.  He  wrote  the  first  Monopoly 
that  ever  made  faces  at  a  defenceless 
public.  He  was  the  owner  of  the  first 
Trust  ever  captured  alive,  and  he  fed 
it  on  government  bonds  and  small 
dealers  till  it  grew  tame  enough  to  eat 
out  of  a  pocketbook. 

Uncle  Peter  sat  down  on  a  rock 
overhanging  the  clay  bank  which 
sloped  up  about  four  feet  above  the 
lazy  brooklet.  He  carefully  arranged 
his  expensive  rod,  placed  his  fish 
basket  near  by  and  entered  into  a  dis 
sertation  on  angling  that  would  make 
old  Ike  Walton  get  up  and  leave  the 
aquarium. 

In  the  meantime  Tacks  decided  to 
do  some  bait  fishing,  so  with  an  old 
case  knife  he  sat  down  behind  Uncle 
Peter  and  began  to  dig  under  the  rock 
for  worms. 


76  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"Fishing  is  the  sport  of  kings,"  the 
old  man  chuckled;  "an  it's  a  long  eel 
that  won't  turn  when  trodden  upon. 
If  you're  not  going  to  fish,  John,  do 
sit  down !  You're  throwing  a  shadow 
over  the  water  and  that  scares  the 
finny  monsters.  A  fish  diet  is  great 
for  the  brain,  John!  You  should  eat 
more  fish." 

"There's  many  a  true  word  spoken 
from  the  chest,"  I  sighed,  just  as  Un 
cle  Peter  made  his  first  cast  and  clev 
erly  wound  about  eight  feet  of  line 
around  a  spruce  tree  on  the  opposite 
bank. 

The  old  man  began  to  boil  with  ex 
citement  as  he  pulled  and  tugged  in 
an  effort  to  untangle  his  line,  and  just 
about  this  time  Tacks  became  the 
author  of  another  spectacular  drama. 

In  the  search  for  the  elusive  worm 
that  feverish  youth  known  as  Tacks 
the  Human  Catastrophe,  had  finally 
succeeded  in  prying  the  rock  loose  and 
immediately  thereafter  Uncle  Peter 
dropped  his  rod  with  a  yd!  of  terror 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  77 

and  proceeded  to  follow  the  man  from 
Cook's. 

The  rock  reached  the  brook  first, 
but  the  old  gentleman  gave  it  a  warm 
hustle  down  the  bank  and  finished  a 
close  second.  He  was  in  the  money, 
all  right. 

Tacks  also  ran — but  in  an  opposite 
direction. 

For  some  little  time  my  spluttering 
relative  sat  dum  founded  in  about  two 
feet  of  dirty  water,  and  when  finally  I 
dipped  him  out  of  the  drink  he  looked 
like  a  busy  wash-day.  Everything 
was  damp  but  his  ardor. 

However,  with  characteristic  good 
nature  he  squeezed  the  water  out  of 
his  pockets  and  declared  that  it  was 
just  the  kind  of  exercise  he  needed. 
He  made  me  promise  not  to  tell  Aunt 
Martha,  because  she  was  very  much 
opposed  to  his  going  in  bathing  on  ac 
count  of  the  undertow.  Then  I 
sneaked  him  up  to  his  room  and  left 
him  to  change  his  clothes. 

On  the  piazza.  I  found  Clara  J.,  her 


78  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

face  shrouded  in  the  after-glow  of  a 
wintry  sunset. 

She  handed  me  a  telegram  minus 
the  envelope  and  asked  me,  with  a 
voice  that  was  intended  to  be  cuttingly 
sarcastic,  "Is  there  any  answer?" 

I  opened  the  message  and  read : 


New  York. 
John  Henry. 

Jiggersville,  N.  Y. 

The  two  queens  will  be  out  this  afternoon  they 
are  good  girls  so  treat  them  white. 

Bunch. 


The  unspeakable  idiot,  to  send  me  a 
wire  worded  like  that!  No  wonder 
Clara  J.  was  sitting  on  the  ice  cream 
freezer !  Of  course  it  only  meant  that 
Bunch's  sister  and  her  daughter  were 
coming  out  to  look  at  their  property, 
bwt — suffering  mackerel !  what  an  eye 
Clara  J.  was  giving  me ! 

"And  who  are  the  two  queens  ?"  she 
queried,  bitterly. 

My  face  grew  redder  and  redder. 
Erery  minute  I  expected  to  turn  into 
a  «omplete  boiled  lobster.  I  could  see 


BACK   TO  THE   WOODS.  79 

somebody  reaching  for  the  mayonaise 
to  sprinkle  me. 

"Well,"  she  continued,  "is  there  no 
answer?  Of  course,  they  are  good 
girls,  and  you'll  treat  them  white, 
but — "  Then  the  heavens  opened  and 
the  floods  descended. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  sobbed;  "how 
could  you  be  so  unkind,  so  cruel ! 
Think  of  it,  a  scandal  on  the  very  first 
day  in  my  new  home,  and  I  was  so 
happy !" 

I  would  confess  everything.  There 
was  no  other  way  out  of  it.  I  was  on 
my  knees  by  her  side  just  about  to 
blurt  forth  the  awful  truth  when  my 
courage  failed  and  suddenly  I 
switched  my  bet  and  gave  the  cards 
another  cut. 

"It's  all  a  mistake,"  I  whispered; 
"it's  only  Bunch  Jefferson  doing  a 
comedy  scene.  Don't  you  understand, 
dear;  when  Bunch  tries  to  get  funny 
all  the  undertakers  have  a  busy  sea 
son.  I  simply  don't  know  who  he 


80  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

means  by  the  two  queens,  and  as  for 
scandal,  well,  you  know  me,  Pete!" 

I  threw  out  my  chest  and  gave  an 
imitation  of  St.  Anthony. 

"You  must  know  who  he  means," 
she  insisted,  brightening  a  bit,  how 
ever. 

"Ah,  I  have  it!"  I  cried,  brave- 
hearted  liar  that  I  was ;  "he  means  my 
Aunt  Eliza  and  her  daughter,  Julia! 
You  remember  Aunt  Eliza,  and 
Julia?" 

"I  never  heard  you  speak  of  them 
before,"  she  said,  still  unconvinced. 

Good  reason,  too,  for  up  to  this  aw 
ful  moment  I  never  had  an  Aunt  Eliza 
or  a  cousin  Julia,  but  relatives  must  be 
found  to  fit  the  emergency. 

"Oh,  you've  forgotten,  my  dear,"  I 
said,  soothingly.  "Aunt  Eliza  and 
Julia  are  two  of  the  best  Aunts  I  ever 
had — er,  I  mean  Aunt  Eliza  is  the  best 
cousin — well,  let  it  go  at  that !  Bunch 
may  have  met  them  on  the  street,  you 
see,  and  they  inquired  for  my  address. 
Yes,  that's  it.  Dear,  old  Aunt  Eliza !" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  8 1 

"Is  she  very  old?"  Clara  J.  asked, 
willing  to  be  convinced  if  I  could  de 
liver  the  goods. 

"Old,"  I  echoed,  then  suddenly  re 
membering  Bunch's  description;  "oh, 
no;  she's  a  young  widow,  about  28  or 
41,  somewhere  along  in  there.  You'll 
like  her  immensely,  but  I  hope  she 
doesn't  come  out  until  we  get  settled 
in  a  year  or  two." 

Clara  J.  dried  her  eyes,  but  I  could 
see  that  she  hadn't  restored  me  to  her 
confidence  as  a  member  in  good  stand 
ing. 

She  pleaded  a  headache  and  went 
away  to  her  room,  while  I  sat  down 
with  Bunch's  telegram  in  my  hands 
and  tried  to  find  even  a  cowpath 
through  the  woods. 

Uncle  Peter  came  out,  none  the 
worse  for  his  cold  plunge,  and  sat 
down  near  me. 

"Ah,  my  boy,  isn't  this  delightful !" 
he  cried,  drinking  in  the  air.  "There's 
nothing  like  the  country,  I  tell  you ! 
Look  at  that  view !  Isn't  it  grand  ? 


82  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

John,  to  be  frank  with  you,  up  until 
I  saw  this  place  I  didn't  have  much 
faith  in  your  ability  as  a  business  man, 
but  now  I  certainly  admire  your  wis 
dom  in  selecting  a  spot  like  this — what 
did  it  cost  you?" 

Cost  me!  so  far  it  had  cost  me  an 
attack  of  nervous  prostration,  but  I 
couldn't  tell  him  that.  I  hesitated  for 
the  simple  reason  that  I  hadn't  the 
faintest  idea  what  the  place  had  cost 
Bunch.  I  had  been  too  busy  to  ask 
him. 

"It's  all  right,  John,"  the  old  fellow 
went  on;  "don't  think  me  inquisitive. 
A  rubberneck  is  the  root  of  all  evil. 
It's  only  because  I've  been  watching 
you  rather  closely  since  we  came  out 
here  and  you  seem  to  be  nervous  about 
something.  I  had  an  idea  maybe  it 
took  all  your  ready  money  to  buy  the 
place,  and  possibly  you  regret  spend 
ing  so  much — but  don't  you  do  it !  The 
best  day's  work  you  ever  did  was 
when  you  bought  this  place!" 

"Yes,    I  believe    you!"    I    sighed, 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  83 

wearily,  as  I  turned  to  look  down  the 
road. 

I  stiffened  in  the  chair  for  I  saw  my 
finish  in  the  outward  form  of  two 
women  rapidly  approaching  the  house. 

"It's  Bunch's  sister  and  her  daugh 
ter,"  I  moaned  to  myself.  "Well,  I'll 
be  generous  and  let  the  blow  fall  first 
on  Uncle  Peter!"  Accordingly,  I 
made  a  quick  exit. 

In  the  kitchen  I  found  Clara  J.,  her 
headache  forgotten,  busily  preparing 
to  cook  the  dinner. 

She's  a  foxy  little  bundle  of 
peaches,  that  girl  is;  and  I  was  wise 
to  the  fact  that  her  suspicion  factory 
was  still  working  over-time,  turning 
out  material  for  the  undersigned. 

I  felt  it  in  my  bones  that  the  steer  I 
gave  her  about  Aunt  Eliza  had  been 
placed  in  cold  storage  for  safe  keep 
ing. 

Her  brain  was  busy  running  to  the 
depot  to  meet  the  scandal  Bunch's 
telegram  hinted  at,  but  she  pretended 
to  catch  step  and  walk  along  with  me. 


84  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"John,"  she  said,  "I  certainly  do 
hope  your  relatives  won't  come  out  for 
some  little  time,  because  we  really 
aren't  ready  for  visitors,  now  are  we, 
dear?" 

"Indeed  we  are  not,"  I  groaned. 

"I  can't  help  thinking  it  awfully 
strange  that  you  should  be  notified  of 
their  coming  by  Mr.  Jefferson,  and  in 
such  peculiar  language,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  Bunch  is  a  low 
comedian,"  I  said,  weakly.  "Besides, 
he  knows  them  very  well.  Aunt  Fanny 
is  very  fond  of  Bunch." 

"Aunt  Fanny,"  she  repeated,  drop 
ping  a  tin  pan  to  the  floor  with  a 
crash;  "I  thought  you  said  her  name 
was  Eliza?" 

"Sure  thing !"  I  chortled ;  while  my 
heart  fell  off  its  perch  and  dropped  in 
my  shoes.  "Her  name  is  Eliza  Fanny ; 
some  of  us  call  her  Aunt  Eliza,  some 
Aunt  Fanny — see?" 

She  hadn't  time  to  see,  for  at  that 
moment  Tacks  rushed  in,  exclaiming, 


BACK   TO  THE   WOODS.  85 

"Say,  sister,  they's  two  strange  wo 
men  on  the  piazza  talking  to  Uncle 
Peter,  and  maybe  when  they  go  one  of 
them  will  fall  down  the  steps  if  I  put 
some  more  soap  there !" 

Like  a  whirlwind  he  was  gone 
again.  Clara  J.  simply  looked  at  me 
queerly  and  said,  "The  queens  are 
here ;  treat  them  white,  John !" 

I  felt  as  happy  as  a  piece  of  cheese. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  TWO  QUEENS. 

WELL!"  said  Clara  J., 
after  a  painful  pause, 
"why  don't  you  go  and 
welcome  your  Aunt  Eliza?" 

Aunt  Lize  would  be  the  central  fig 
ure  in  a  hot  old  time  if  she  went  where 
I  wished  her  at  that  moment. 

Somebody  had  tied  both  my  feet  to 
the  floor. 

I  had  visions  of  two  excited  females 
lambasting  me  with  umbrellas  and  de 
manding  their  property  back. 

Completely  at  a  loss  I  sank  into  a 
chair,  feeling  as  bright  and  chipper 
as  a  poached  egg. 

I  felt  that  I  belonged  just  about  as 
much  as  a  knothole  does  in  a  barb- 
wire  fence. 

In  that  few  minutes  Bunch  was 
more  than  revenged. 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  87 

I  was  on  the  pickle  boat  for  sure. 

Sailing!  sailing!  over  the  griddle, 
me! 

Scientists  tell  us  that  when  a  man  is 
drowning  every  detail  of  his  lifetime 
passes  before  him  in  the  fraction  of  a 
second. 

Well,  that  moving  picture  gag  was 
worked  on  me,  without  the  aid  of  a 
bathing  suit. 

When  I  awoke,  Clara  J.  was  saying, 
"Possibly  it  would  look  better  if  I 
went  with  you.  Wait  just  a  moment, 
till  I  get  this  apron  off — there!  come 
along !" 

I  arose,  and  with  delightful  unanim 
ity  the  chair  arose  also,  clinging  like 
a  passionate  porusplaster  to  my  pan 
taloons. 

"Mercy !"  exclaimed  Clara  J.,  "that 
little  villain,  Tacks,  has  been  making 
molasses  candy!" 

"It  strikes  me,"  I  said,  trying  Eard 
to  be  calm,  "that  after  making  the 
candy  he  decided  to  make  a  monkey  of 
me.  Darn  the  blame  thing,  it  won't 


88  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

let  go!  I  suppose  I've  got  to  be  a  per 
petual  furniture  mover  the  rest  of  my 
life!" 

Just  then  Uncle  Peter  came  bub 
bling  into  the  kitchen,  talking  in  short 
explosions  like  a  bottle  of  vichy,  and  I 
collaborated  with  the  chair  in  a  hasty 
squatty-vous ! 

"Two  women  on  the  piazza,"  he 
fizzed ;  "been  talking  to  them  an  hour 
and  all  I  could  get  out  of  them  was 
'yes'  and  'no.'  Not  bad  looking,  but 
profoundly  dumb." 

"Hush !"  said  Clara  J.,  glancing  un 
easily  at  me  and  then  back  at  Uncle 
Peter,  as  she  raised  a  warning  finger 
to  her  lips. 

"Oh,  they  can't  hear  me,"  the  old 
gentleman  went  on ;  "John,  you  better 
go  out  and  see  them.  They  have  a 
card  with  your  name  written  on  it. 
I'm  no  lady's  man,  anyhow." 

"Do  they  look  like  queens?"  Clara 
J.  asked,  uneasily. 

"Well,    they    aren't    exactly     Cleo- 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  89 

patras,  but  not  bad,  not  bad!"  he 
gurgled. 

"Is  one  older  than  the  other?"  Clara 
J.  cross-questioned. 

"Might  be  mother  and  daughter," 
Uncle  Peter  fancied. 

"It's  surely  Bunch's  bunch,"  I 
groaned  inwardly,  wondering  how  I'd 
look  galloping  across  the  country  with 
a  kitchen  chair  trailing  along  behind. 

"Uncle  Peter,  it  must  be  John 
Henry's  Aunt  Eliza  and  cousin  Julia. 
He  expects  them,  don't  you,  John?" 
Clara  J.  explained.  "We  shall  be 
ready  to  welcome  them  in  just  a  little 
while ;"  here  she  glanced  cautiously  at 
the  chair.  "In  the  meantime  you  show 
them  into  the  spare  room  and  say  that 
John  will  see  them  very  soon." 

The  old  gentleman  eyed  me  suspi 
ciously  and  retired  without  a  word. 

I'm  afraid  Uncle  Peter  found  it 
hard  to  take. 

With  the  kind  assistance  of  the 
carving  knife  Clara  J.  removed  all  of 
me  from  the  chair,  with  the  exception 


90  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

of  a  few  feet  of  trousers,  and  I  made 
a  quick  change  of  costume. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  joined  her  in 
the  parlor,  where  the  scene  was  set  for 
my  finish.  I  picked  out  a  quiet  spot 
near  the  piano  to  die. 

Uncle  Peter  was  enjoying  every 
minute  of  it. 

He  hurried  off  to  escort  the  visitors 
to  the  parlor  and  a  moment  later  Aunt 
Martha  bustled  in. 

"Are  they  here?"  she  asked  breath 
lessly. 

"How  did  you  know  they  were  com 
ing?"  inquired  Clara  J.  in  surprised 
tones. 

"How  did  I  know !"  exclaimed 
Auntie;  "why  I  sent  them!" 

Every  hand  was  against  me.  The 
parachute  had  failed  to  work  and  I 
was  dropping  on  the  rocks. 

Faintly  and  far  away  I  could  hear 
the  ambulance  coming  at  a  gallop. 

Sweet  spirits  of  ammonia,  but  I  was 
up  against  it ! 

It  was  plainly   evident   to   me  that 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  91 

Aunt  Martha  knew  the  awful  relatives 
of  Bunch,  and  that  the  old  lady  was 
camping  on  my  trial.  Yes;  there  she 
stood,  old  Aunt  Nemesis,  glaring  at 
me  from  behind  her  spectacles. 

I  decided  to  die  without  going  over 
near  the  piano. 

"Where  are  they?"  I  could  hear 
Aunt  Martha  asking  in  the  same  tone 
of  voice  I  was  certain  the  Roman  Em 
peror  used  when  just  about  to  frame 
up  a  finale  for  a  few  Christians  from 
over  the  Tiber. 

"Uncle  Peter  has  gone  for  them; 
we  put  them  in  the  spare  room,"  an 
swered  Clara  J. 

"What!  in  the  spare  room!"  gasped 
Aunt  Martha,  collapsing  in  a  chair 
just  as  Uncle  Peter  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  bowing  low  before  the  vis 
itors,  who  stalked  clumsily  into  the 
parlor. 

For  some  reason  or  other  Clara  J. 
omitted  the  formality  of  springing 
forward  and  greeting  my  relatives  ef 
fusively,  so  she  simply  said,  "You  are 


92  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

very  welcome,  Aunt  Eliza  and  cousin 
Julia!" 

"Great  heavens!  what  does  this 
mean?"  shrieked  Aunt  Martha.  "It 
cannot  be  possible  that  these  two  wo 
men  are  relatives  of  yours,  John ! 
Why,  I  engaged  them  both  in  an  in 
telligence  office;  one  for  the  kitchen, 
the  other  as  parlor  maid !" 

"Sure  not,"  I  chirped,  in  joy- 
freighted  accents,  as  I  grasped  the 
glorious  situation.  "They  aren't  my 
relatives  and  never  were.  The  more 
I  look  at  them  the  more  convinced  I 
am  that  there's  no  room  for  them  to 
perch  on  my  family  tree.  I  disown 
them  both.  Back  to  the  woods  with 
the  Swede  imposters !" 

I  win  by  an  eyelash. 

I  was  so  happy  I  went  over  to  the 
mantel  and  began  to  bite  the  bric-a- 
brac. 

Qara  J.  didn't  know  whether  to 
laugh  or  cry,  so  she  compromised  by 
giggling  at  Uncle  Peter,  who  sat  on 
the  piano  stool  whirling  himself 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  93 

around  rapidly  and  muttering,  "any 
kind  of  exercise  is  good  exercise." 

Aunt  Martha  stared  around  the 
room  from  one  to  another  in  speech 
less  amazement,  while  the  two  inno 
cent  causes  of  all  the  trouble  stood  mo 
tionless,  with  their  noses  tip-tilted  to 
the  ceiling. 

Presently  Aunt  Martha  broke  the 
spell  just  as  I  was  about  to  eat  a  cut- 
glass  vase  in  the  gladness  of  my  heart. 

"Go  to  the  kitchen !"  she  said  sharp 
ly  to  the  newcomers,  whereupon  they 
both  turned  in  unison  and  looked  the 
old  lady  all  over.  Finally  they  de 
cided  to  discharge  Aunt  Martha,  for 
the  oldest  member  of  the  troupe  fold 
ed  her  arms  decisively  and  said, 
"Sure,  it  ain't  in  any  lunatic  asylum 
I'll  be  afther  livin',  bless  th'  Saints! 
If  yez  have  a  sinsible  moment  left  in 
your  head  will  yez  give  us  th'  car  fare 
back  to  th'  city,  and  it'll  be  a  blessed 
hour  for  me  whin  I  plants  me  feet  on 
th'  ferryboat,  so  it  will !" 

Uncle  Peter  checked  the  fiery  course 


94  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

of  the  piano  stool  and  began  to  make 
his  double  chin  do  a  gurgle,  where 
upon  the  youngest  of  the  two  female 
impersonators  handed  him  a  glare  that 
put  out  his  chuckle  and  he  started  the 
piano  stool  again  at  the  rate  of  45 
revolutions  per  minute. 

"Th'  ould  Buffalo  over  there 
showed  us  up  to  th'  spare  room, 
thinkin'  to  be  funny,"  she  who  was 
fated  never  to  be  our  cook,  went  on, 
"and  if  I  wasn't  in  a  daffy  house 
and  him  nothin'  but  a  bug  it's  the 
weight  of  that  chair  he'd  feel  over  his 
bald  spot.  Th'  ould  goosehead,  to  set 
us  down  on  th'  porch  and  talk  to  us 
for  an  hour  about  th'  landshcape  and 
th'  atmusphere,  and  to  ask  me,  a  re 
spectable  lady,  what  kind  of  exercise. 
I  was  partial  to!  It's  a  Hiven's  own 
blessin'  I  didn't  hand  him  a  poke  in  th' 
slats,  so  it  is !" 

Uncle  Peter,  with  palpably  assumed 
indifference,  slid  off  the  piano  stool 
and  faded  behind  the  furthermost  win 
dow  curtain,  while  I  went  up  to  the 


BACK  TO   THE   WOODS.  95 

belligerent  visitor  and  said,  "On  your 
way,  Gismonda;  the  referee  gives  the 
fight  to  you ;  here's  the  gate  receipts !" 

With  this  I  handed  her  a  ten-spot 
which  she  looked  at  suspiciously  and 
said,  "If  ever  I  get  that  ould  potato 
pounder  over  in  New  York  it's  exer 
cise  I'll  give  him !  Sure,  I'll  run  him 
from  th'  Bat'hry  to  Harlem  widout  a 
shtop  for  meals,  bad  cess  to  him !" 

Having  delivered  this  parting  knock 
at  Uncle  Peter,  the  queen  of  the 
kitchen  flounced  out  of  the  house,  fol 
lowed  by  the  younger  one  who  had 
played  only  a  thinking  part  in  the 
strenuous  scene. 

Aunt  Martha  still  sat  motionless  in 
the  chair,  quite  on  the  verge  of  tears, 
when  Clara  J.  went  over  to  her  and 
said,  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you 
were  going  after  servants,  Auntie?" 

"I  wanted  to  surprise  you,"  the  old 
lady  replied,  plaintively.  "They  were 
to  be  my  contribution  to  the  house 
hold." 

"You    handed    us    a    surprise,  all 


96  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

right;  didn't  she,  Uncle  Peter?"  I 
chirped  in  with  a  view  to  laughing  off 
the  whole  affair,  but  just  then  a  series 
of  startling  shrieks  caused  us  all  to 
rush  for  the  piazza. 

At  the  gate  we  beheld  a  kicking, 
struggling  mass  of  lingerie  and  bad 
dialect,  which  presently  resolved  itself 
into  the  forms  of  my  temporary  rela 
tives  who  were  now  busily  engaged  in 
macadamizing  the  roadway  with  their 
heads. 

Then  Tacks  came  yelling  on  the 
scene :  "I  thought  maybe  they  was  fe 
male  burglars  so  I  stretched  a  wire 
acrost  the  gate  and  they  was  in  such  a 
hurry  getting  away  that  they  never 
noticed  it  till  it  was  too  everlastingly 
late !" 

Before  we  could  remonstrate  with 
the  Boy-Disaster  he  let  another  whoop 
out  of  him  and  darted  off  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  barn. 

That  whoop  brought  the  two  wire- 
tappers  to  their  feet  and  after  they 
both  shook  their  fists  eagerly  in  our 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  97 

direction  they  started  in  frenzied  haste 
for  the  depot. 

As  they  scurried  frantically  out  of 
our  neighborhood  Uncle  Peter  smiled 
blandly  and  murmured,  "For  lectur 
ers,  female  reformers  and  all  those 
who  lead  a  sedentary  life  there's  noth 
ing  like  exercise !" 

Putting  my  arm  around  Clara  J.'s 
waist  I  whispered,  "Didn't  I  tell  you 
it  was  one  of  Bunch's  put-up  jobs? 
He's  jealous  because  I'm  so  happy  out 
here  with  you,  that's  all !  As  for  the 
telegram,  forget  it!" 

"All  right,  John,"  said  Clara  J., 
"but  nevertheless  that  same  telegram 
gave  you  a  busy  day,  didn't  it  ?" 

"It  surely  did,  but  it  was  only  be 
cause  I  hated  to  have  you  worried,"  I 
answered  as  she  went  in  the  house  to 
console  Aunt  Martha. 

I  sat  down  in  a  chair  expecting 
every  moment  to  have  the  Prince  of 
Liars  come  up  and  congratulate  me. 

Humming  a  tune  quietly  to  himself 
Uncle  Peter  watched  the  flying  squad- 


98  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

ron  disappear  in  a  bend  of  the  road, 
then  he  sat  down  near  me  and  said, 
"John,  you're  worried  about  some 
thing  and  I've  a  pretty  fair  idea  what 
it  is.  This  property  is  too  big  a  load 
for  you  to  carry,  eh?" 

From  the  depths  of  my  heart  I  re- 
-plied,  "It  certainly  is !" 

"Well,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "it 
surely  has  made  a  hit  with  me.  I  never 
struck  a  place  I  liked  half  as  well  as 
this.  How  would  you  like  to  sell  it  to 
me,  then  you  and  Clara  J.  could  live 
with  us,  eh?  Come  on,  now,  what 
d'ye  say?" 

I  sat  there  utterly  unable  to  say  any 
thing. 

"What  did  it  cost  you;  come  on, 
now,  John?"  the  old  fellow  urged. 

"Oh,  about  $14,000,"  I  whispered, 
picking  out  the  first  figure  I  could 
think  of. 

"It's  worth  it  and  more,  too,"  he 
said.  "I'll  give  you  $20,000  for  it — 
say  the  word!" 

"Well,    if    you  insist!"    I    replied, 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  99 

weakly;  and  the  next  minute  he 
danced  off  to  write  me  a  check. 

In  the  tar  barrel  every  time  I  opened 
my  mouth !  Hard  luck  was  certainly 
putting  the  wrapping  paper  all  over 
me. 

Well,  the  only  thing  to  do  now  was 
to  hustle  up  to  town  in  the  morning 
and  inform  Bunch  that  I  had  sold  his 
property. 

I  felt  sure  he'd  be  tickled  to  a  stand 
still—not  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  HAPPY  HOME. 

EARLY  the  next  morning  I 
broke  camp  and  took  the 
trail  to  town,  determined 
never  to  come  back  alive  unless  Bunch 
agreed  to  sell  the  plantation  to  Uncle 
Peter. 

The  old  gentleman  had  crowded  his 
check  for  $20,000  into  my  trembling 
hands  the  night  before  with  instruc 
tions  to  deposit  it  in  my  bank,  and  at 
my  convenience  I  was  to  let  him  have 
the  deed  to  the  place. 

Well,  if  Bunch  should  refuse  to 
play  ball  I  could  send  the  check  back 
to  Uncle  Peter,  and  a  telegram  to 
Clara  J.,  telling  her  that  I  was  back  in 
the  flat,  laid  up  with  a  spavined  fet 
lock  or  something. 

Uncle  Peter  was  out  in  the  garden 


Bunch  Jefferson — All  to  the 

Good  and  Two  to  Carry. — Page  100. 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  IOI 

planting  puree  of  split  peas  or  some 
other  spring  vegetable  when  I  started 
for  the  train,  so  all  the  Recording  An 
gel  had  to  put  down  against  me  was 
the  new  batch  of  Ochiltrees  I  told 
Clara  J. 

I  soon  located  Bunch,  and  to  my 
surprise  found  him  more  inclined  to 
josh  than  to  jolt. 

"Ah !  my  friend  from  the  bush !"  he 
exclaimed;  "are  you  in  town  to  buy 
imitation  coal,  or  is  it  to  get  a  derrick 
and  hoist  your  home  affairs  away 
from  my  property?  Why  don't  you 
take  a  tumble,  John,  and  let  go?" 

"Bunch,"  I  said,  "believe  me,  this 
is  the  crudest  game  of  freeze-out  I 
ever  sat  in.  My  throat  is  sore  from 
singing,  'Father,  dear  father,  come 
home  with  me  now !'  and  every  move 
I  make  nets  me  a  new  ornamentation 
on  my  neck.  Why  didn't  I  tell  the 
good  wife  that  the  ponies  put  the 
crimp  in  my  pocketbook  instead  of 
crawling  into  this  chasm  of  prevarica 
tion  and  trouble?" 


102  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"You  can  search  me!"  Bunch  an 
swered,  thoughtfully. 

"And  that  phony  wire  you  sent  me 
yesterday  almost  gave  me  a  plexus,"  I 
said  bitterly.  "Why  did  you  frame  up 
one  of  those  when-we-were-twenty- 
one  dispatches  from  the  front?  It 
sounded  like  a  love  song  from  Willie 
Hayface  of  Cohoes,  after  his  first  day 
on  Broadway.  Didn't  you  know  that 
my  wife  was  liable  to  open  that  queer 
fellow  and  put  me  on  the  toasting 
fork?" 

Bunch  blinked  his  eyes  solemnly, 
but  when  I  told  him  all  about  the 
trouble  his  telegram  had  caused  he 
simply  rose  up  on  his  hind  legs  and 
laughed  me  to  a  sit  down. 

"Well,"  he  gasped  after  a  long  fit  of 
cackling;  "sister  did  intend  going  out 
to  Jiggers ville  and  the  only  way  I 
could  stop  her  was  to  suddenly  dis 
cover  that  her  health  wasn't  any  too 
good,  so  I  chased  her  off  to  Virginia 
Hot  Springs  for  a  couple  of  weeks." 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  103 

After  all,  Bunch  had  his  redeeming 
qualities. 

"I  sent  you  that  wire  before  I  took 
sister's  temperature,"  Bunch  ex 
plained,  "and  I  quite  forgot  to  send 
another  which  would  put  a  copper  on 
the  queens." 

Once  more  he  laughed  uproariously 
and  chortled  between  the  outbursts, 
"Now — ha,  ha,  ha ! — I'm  even  for — 
ha,  ha,  ha! — for  that  shoot  the  chute 
I  did  in  your — ha,  ha,  ha — in  your 
cellar — oh !  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !" 

"Oh,  quit  your  kidding !"  I  begged, 
and  then,  suddenly,  "Say,  Bunch, 
will  you  sell  the  old  homestead?" 

Bunch  stopped  laughing  and  looked 
me  over  from  head  to  foot.  "Is  this 
on  the  level  or  simply  another  low 
tackle?" 

"It's  the  goods,"  I  answered:  "I 
simply  can't  frighten,  coax,  scare, 
drive  or  push  my  home  companions 
away  from  your  property,  so  I'd  like 
to  buy  it  if  you're  game  to  cut  the 
cards?" 


IO4  BACK   TO  THE    WOODS. 

"Been  playing  the  lottery?'  he 
snickered. 

"No,  but  I  have  the  Pierponts,  all 
right,  all  right,"  I  replied;  "will  you 
put  $14,000  in  your  kick  and  pass  me 
over  the  baronial  estate?" 

"Fourteen  thousand!"  Bunch  re 
peated  slowly.  "Sure,  I  will.  If  you 
can  Morgan  that  amount  I'll  make 
good  with  the  necessary  documents, 
and  then  you  and  your  family  troubles 
may  sit  around  on  fly  paper  in  Jiggers- 
ville  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  lives 
for  all  I  care." 

I  explained  to  Bunch  that  I  wanted 
the  deed  made  out  in  the  name  of 
Peter  Grant  for  the  reason  that  Uncle 
Peter  was  a  bigger  farmer  than  I,  and 
in  short  order  the  preliminary  ar 
rangements  were  completed  to  the  sat 
isfaction  and  relief  of  both  parties 
concerned. 

That  evening  I  went  back  to  Jig- 
gersville  feeling  as  light  as  a  pin 
feather  on  a  young  duck. 

Uncle  Peter  could   have  the  prop- 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  105 

erty;  Bunch  could  buy  his  sister  an 
other  castle,  and  I  was  ahead  of  the 
game  just  $6,000,  more  than  enough 
to  square  me  for  all  the  green  paper  I 
had  torn  up  at  the  track. 

Of  course,  it  did  look  as  though 
Uncle  Peter  had  been  whipsawed,  but 
when  I  considered  the  bundles  the  old 
gentleman  had  stored  away  in  the 
vaults,  and  when  I  remembered  his 
eagerness  to  cough,  I  simply  couldn't 
produce  one  pang  of  conscience. 

Two  days  later  Bunch  had  a  certi 
fied  check  for  $14,000  and  Uncle  Peter 
was  the  happy  owner  of  the  country 
estate. 

"We  will  live  with  you  and  Aunt 
Martha  a  little  while,"  I  said  to  him; 
"but  if  you  have  no  objection  I'd  like 
to  buy  a  small  lot  down  near  the 
brook  from  you  and  build  a  bit  of  a 
cage  there  for  ourselves." 

Uncle  Peter  chuckled  affirmatively, 
but  seemed  unwilling  to  continue  the 
subject  further.  "Isn't  it  glorious  out 
here,"  he  smiled.  "Pure  air,  fresh 


106  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

from  the  bakery  of  Heaven!  I  have 
younged  myself  ten  years  since  we 
came  out  here.  Yesterday  I  fell  in  a 
bear  trap  which  Tacks  had  dug  and 
carefully  concealed  with  brush  and 
leaves.  It  took  me  four  hours  to  get 
out  because  I'm  rather  stout,  but  the 
exercise  surely  did  me  good." 

Can  you  beat  him? 

A  week  later  the  second  anniversary 
of  our  wedding  would  roll  around,  and 
although  Clara  J.  was  a  trifle  hard  to 
win  over,  I  finally  coaxed  her  to  let 
me  have  Bunch  out  to  spend  a  few 
hours  with  us  on  that  occasion. 

At  the  appointed  hour  Bunch  ar 
rived  and  Clara  J.  greeted  him  with 
every  word  of  that  telegram  darting 
forth  darkly  from  her  eyes. 

"Mrs.  John,"  said  Bunch,  "I'm  sim 
ply  delighted  to  know  you.  I've  often 
heard  your  husband  speak  well  of 
you." 

She  had  to  smile  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Mrs.  John,"  Bunch  went  on,  with 
splendid  assurance;  "you  should  be 


BACK   TO   THE   WOODS.  107 

proud  of  this  matinee  idol  husband  of 
yours,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he's 
all  the  goods — he  certainly  is." 

Clara  J.  looked  somewhat  embar 
rassed,  and  as  for  me,  I  was  away  out 
to  sea  in  an  open  boat.  I  hadn't  the 
faintest  idea  what  Bunch  was  driving 
at. 

"You  surely  have  .a  wonderful  in 
fluence  over  him,"  the  lad  with  the 
blarney  continued.  "A  week  or  so 
ago  I  threw  some  bait  at  him  just  to 
test  him  and  he  didn't  even  nibble. 
You  know,  in  the  old  days  John  and  I 
often  trotted  in  double  harness  to  the 
track — bad  place  for  young  men — 
sure !" 

Bunch  surveyed  the  property  with  a 
quick  glance  and  said,  "Yes,  I  sent 
John  a  telegram.  'The  two  queens  will 
be  out  this  afternoon/  I  wired,  mean 
ing  two  horses  that  simply  couldn't 
lose.  'They  are  good  girls,  so  treat 
them  white/  I  told  him,  meaning  that 
he  should  put  up  his  roll  on  them  and 
win  a  hatfull ;  but,  Mrs.  John,  I  never 


108  BACK   TO  THE   WOODS. 

touched  him.  He  simply  ignored  my 
telegram  and  sat  around  in  the  ham 
mock  all  day,  reading  a  novel,  I  sup 
pose.  I  apologize  to  you,  Mrs.  John, 
for  trying  to  drag  him  away  from  the 
path  of  rectitude,  but,  believe  me,  I 
didn't  know  when  I  sent  the  message 
that  he  had  promised  you  to  give  the 
ponies  the  long  farewell!" 

Clara  J.  laughed  with  happiness,  all 
her  doubts  dispersed,  and  said,  "Oh, 
don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Bunch !  I'm 
simply  delighted  to  welcome  you  to 
our  new  home.  You  have  never  been 
out  here  before,  have  you?" 

Bunch  glanced  at  me,  then  through 
the  open  front  door  in  the  direction  of 
the  scene  of  his  downfall,  and  said, 
hesitatingly,  "Never  before,  thank 
you,  kindly !" 

Good  old  Bunch.  He  had  squared 
me  with  my  wife  and  the  world — oh, 
well,  some  day,  perhaps,  I'd  get  a 
chance  to  even  up. 

"John,"  he  said,  a  few  minutes  later, 
when  we  took  a  short  stroll  around 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  1 09 

the  place.  "Now  that  I've  started  in 
to  tell  the  whole  truth  I  musn't  skip  a 
paragraph.  This  is  a  pleasant  bit  of 
property,  but  the  solemn  fact  remains 
that  I  put  the  boots  to  you.  I  gave 
you  the  gaff  for  $6,000,  old  friend,  and 
it  breaks  my  heart  to  tell  you  that  I'm 
not  sorry.  Bunch  for  Number  One, 
always !" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"This  farm  only  cost  me  $8,000," 
he  said,  giving  me  the  pitying  grin. 

"It  cost  me  $14,000  and  I  sold  it  for 
$20,000,"  I  said,  slowly. 

We  stopped  and  shook  hands. 

"Who's  the  come-on?"  he  asked, 
presently. 

"Uncle  Peter,"  I  answered,  "but  the 
old  boy  has  so  much  he  has  to  kick  a 
lot  of  it  out  of  the  house  every  once  in 
a  while,  so  it's  all  right." 

After  dinner  we  were  all  sitting  on 
the  piazza,  listening  to  a  treatise  from 
Uncle  Peter  on  the  subject  of  the 
growth  and  proper  care  of  wheat 
cakes,  or  asparagus,  I  forget  which, 


HO  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

when  suddenly  the  cadaverous  form  of 
the  Sherlock  Holmes  of  Jiggersville 
appeared  before  us. 

"Evenin'  all!"  bowed  Harmony 
Diggs,  clinging  tightly  to  a  bundle 
which  he  held  under  his  arm. 

"Find  that  robber  yet?"  inquired 
Bunch,  winking  at  me. 

"That's  just  what  I  dropped  around 
for  to  tell  you,  thinkin'  maybe  you'd 
be  kinder  interested  in  knowin'  the 
facts  in  the  case,"  Harmony  went  on, 
carefully  placing  the  precious  bundle 
on  the  steps. 

"I  got  a  clue  from  this  here  gent," 
he  said,  pointing  a  bony  finger  at 
Bunch,  "and  I  ups  and  chases  that 
there  maleyfactor  for  four  miles,  well 
knowin'  that  the  cause  of  justice 
would  suffer  and  the  reward  of  fifty 
dollars  be  nil  and  voidless  if  the  crit 
ter  got  away.  But  I  got  him,  by 
crickey,  I  got  him !" 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
seeking  a  sign  of  applause,  and  Bunch 
said,  "Where  did  you  catch  him?" 


BACK  TO  THE  WOODS.  Ill 

"About  four  miles  yonder,"  Diggs 
explained,  indefinitely.  "It  was  a  fierce 
fight  while  it  lasted,  but  they  ain't  no 
maleyfactor  livin'  can  escape  the 
clutches  of  these  here  hands  oncet 
they  entwines  him.  I  pulled  the  dern 
cuss  out  of  his  clothes !" 

With  this  thrilling  announcement  he 
opened  the  bundle  and  proudly  dis 
played  the  burglar  harness  which 
Bunch  had  worn  on  that  memorable 
night. 

"And  the  burglar  himself?"  Bunch 
questioned. 

Diggs  raised  his  head  slowly,  and 
with  theatrical  effect  answered,  "I 
give  the  cussed  scoun'rel  the  doggon- 
est  drubbin'  a  mortal  maleyfactor  ever 
got  and  let  him  go.  That  was  nearly 
two  weeks  ago,  and  he  ain't  showed 
up  since,  dag  him !" 

"You  win,  Mr.  Ananias!"  said 
Bunch,  handing  Diggs  a  ten  dollar 
bill,  as  he  whispered  to  me,  "That 
story  is  worth  the  money." 


IH  BACK  TO  THE  WOODS. 

"What's  that  for?"  inquired  Diggs, 
somewhat  taken  aback. 

"That's  my  contribution  to  the  re 
ward  for  the  robber,"  Bunch  told  him. 

"Well,"  spluttered  Diggs;  "it  don't 
seem  zactly  right,  seein'  as  how  I  on'y 
pulled  the  cuss  out  of  his  clothes  and 
then  let  him  go  with  a  lambastin'." 

"The  ten-spot  is  for  the  clothes  you 
pulled  him  out  of,"  Bunch  said,  pick 
ing  up  the  garments  and  handing 
them  to  me.  "Keep  them,  John,  as  a 
souvenir  of  your  first  burglar — and 
true  friend,  Bunch!" 

I  took  them  reverently,  and  said, 
"For  your  sake,  Bunch,  they'll  be 
handed  down  from  generation  to  gen 
eration." 

Clara  J.  blushed  and  said,  "Oh, 
John!"  and  I  thought  Uncle  Peter 
would  chuckle  himself  into  a  delirium. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Ananias!" 
Bunch  called,  as  Diggs  made  a  fare 
well  bow  and  turned  to  go. 

"Good-night,  one  and  all,"  replied 
Diggs,  then  a  thought  struck  him  and 


BACK    TO   THE    WOODS.  11$ 

he  turned  with,  "Say,  who's  this  here 
Mr.  Annienias  ?  Seems  like  the  name's 
familiar,  but  it  ain't  mine." 

"Mr.  Ananias  is  the  first  detective 
mentioned  in  history,"  Bunch  ex 
plained,  and  Mr.  Diggs  beamed  over 
us  all. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Officer," 
Aunt  Martha  piped  in;  "have  a  drop 
of  refreshment  before  you  go.  Tacks, 
run  in  and  pour  Mr.  Officer  a  drink 
from  that  bottle  on  the  sideboard !" 

Diggs  stood  there  swallowing  his 
palate  in  delightful  anticipation  until 
Tacks  handed  him  a  brimming  glass 
from  which  the  brave  thief-taker  took 
one  eager  mouthful,  whereupon  he 
emitted  a  shriek  of  terror  that  could 
be  heard  for  miles. 

"Water !  water !  quick !  I'm  a'burn- 
in'  up !"  cried  the  astonished  Diggs. 

Uncle  Peter  in  his  eagerness  to 
quench  the  flames  poured  half  a 
pitcher  full  of  ice  water  down  the  back 
of  Diggs'  neck. 

"It     ain't     there,     it's     down     my 


114  BACK  TO   THE   WOODS. 

throat !"  yelled  the  unfortunate  Har 
mony,  whereupon  Uncle  Peter  poured 
the  rest  of  the  ice  water  over  the  con 
stable's  head. 

When,  finally,  the  old  fellow  was  re 
vived  he  faintly  declined  any  more  re 
freshment,  and  with  a  sad  "good 
night,"  faded  away  in  the  twilight. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  Tacks,  as  he 
watched  the  retreating  form,  "I'm 
afraid  I  upset  some  tobascum  sauce  in 
that  glass  by  mistake." 

Presently,  Bunch  went  off  to  the  de 
pot  to  take  a  train  back  to  the  city,  and 
for  some  little  time  we  sat  in  silence 
on  the  piazza. 

"Grand,  isn't  it?"  Uncle  Peter  said, 
breaking  the  spell.  "Couldn't  be  any 
nicer,  now,  could  it?"  Then  he  went 
over  and  stood  near  Clara  J. 

"Little  woman,"  he  said ;  "ever 
since  we  first  talked  of  moving  out 
here  I  noticed  how  worried  John 
was." 

"So  did  I,"  she  answered,  taking 
my  hand  in  hers. 


BACK  TO  THE   WOODS.  1 15 

"A  day  or  two  ago  I  found  out  what 
the  trouble  was,"  the  old  gentleman 
continued ;  "this  property  was  too 
heavy  a  load  for  a  young  man  to 
carry,  especially  when  he's  just  mar 
ried,  so  I  bought  it  from  him !" 

Before  Clara  J.  could  express  a 
word  Uncle  Peter  put  his  arm  around 
Aunt  Martha's  waist  and  continued, 
"Aunt  Martha  and  I  talked  it  all  over 
last  night  and  in  celebration  of  your 
second  anniversary  we  want  you  to 
accept  this  little  present,"  and  with 
this  he  placed  a  document  in  Clara 
J.'s  hands. 

"It's  the  deed  to  the  property," 
Aunt  Martha  said,  "all  for  you,  Clara 
J.,  but  if  you  don't  mind,  we'd  like  to 
live  here !" 

"Yes,"  said  Uncle  Peter ;  "that  gar 
den  certainly  needs  someone  to  look 
after  it !" 

Clara  J.  was  crying  softly  and  hug 
ging  Aunt  Martha. 

My   own    eyes   were   damp   and  I 


Il6  BACK  TO  THE   WOODS. 

yearned  to  have  somebody  run  the 
lawn  mower  over  me. 

"I'll  race  you  down  to  the  gate  and 
back,"  I  suggested. 

"You're  on,"  laughed  Uncle  Peter; 
"I  believe  I  do  need  a  little  exercise !" 


JOHN  HENRY,  Hugh  McHugh's 
first  book,  reached  the  25,000 
mark  two  weeks  after  it  was 
published.  It's  popularity  since 
then  has  been  unprecedented. 

"  John  Henry's  philosophy  is  of  the  most 
approved  up-to-date  brand.  He  is  by  all 
odds  a  young  man  of  the  period;  he  is  a 
man  about  town.  He  is  a  slang  artist;  a 
painter  of  recherche  phrases;  a  maker  of 
tart  Americanisms. 

In  this  book — it  is  "little,  but  oh  my !" — 
John  Henry  recounts  some  of  his  adven 
tures  about  town,  and  he  interlards  his  des 
criptive  passages  with  impressive  comments 
on  the  men,  women,  institutions,  and  places, 
brought  within  his  observant  notice.  We 
need  not  say  that  his  comments  are  highly- 
colored;  nor  that  his  descriptions  are  re 
markable  for  expressiveness  and  colloquial 
piquancy.  Mr.  Henry  is  a  sort  of  refined 
and  sublimated  type  of  "Chimmie  Fadden," 
though  there  is  by  no  means  anything  of  the 
gamin  about  him.  He  doesn't  speak  in  rich 
coster  dialect  such  as  is  used  by  Mr.  Town- 
send' s  famous  character,  nor  is  he  a  mem- 


ber  of  the  same  social  set  as  the  popular 
hero  of  the  New  York  slums.  Mr.  Henry 
moves  on  a  higher  plane,  he  uses  good 
English — mostly  in  tart  superlatives — and 
his  associates  are  of  a  high  social  scale. 

Mr.  Henry's  adventures  as  he  describes 
them  here  will  make  you  wonder  and  make 
you  laugh. 

His  book  abounds  in  bon-mots  of  slang; 
of  the  kind  you  hear  in  the  theatres  when 
the  end-men,  comedians  and  monologuists 
are  at  their  wittiest  and  best,  when  they 
revel  in  mad  and  merry  extravagances  of 
speech  and  experience. 

It  is  an  art  to  use  street-talk  with  force 
and  terseness,  and  although  it  isn't  the  most 
elegant  phase  of  the  Queen's  English  it 
nevertheless  impresses  to  the  Queen's  taste. 
Hugh  McHugh  has  this  art." — Philadelphia 
Item. 

"  John  Henry  "  is  only  one  of  the  numer 
ous  young  men  who  are  treating  the  public 
to  the  latest  slang  through  the  medium  of 
print  nowadays,  but  he,  unlike  most  of  the 
others,  is  original  in  his  phrases,  has  the 
strong  support  of  the  unexpected  in  his  hu 
mor  and  causes  many  a  good  laugh.  For 
one  thing,  he  merely  tries  to  make  fun, 
wisely  avoiding  the  dangers  of  tediousness 


in  endeavoring  to  utter  immature  wisdom  in 
the  language  of  the  brainless. 

"  The  author,  Hugh  McHugh,  is  thought 
to  be  Mr.  George  V.  Hobart.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  writer  is  a  Baltimorean,  past  or 
present;  the  local  references  evidence  that. 
In  some  places  the  expressions  have  the 
Hobart  ring  to  them.  But  if  Mr.  Hobart 
did  write  the  stories,  he  has  done  his  best 
work  of  the  kind  yet." — Baltimore  Herald. 

"  The  humor  is  of  the  sponUrieous  sort 
that  runs  close  to  truth,  and  it  affords  many 
a  hearty  laugh." — Cleveland  World. 

"  As  a  study  in  slang  it  surpasses  any 
thing  since  the  days  of  '  Artie.'  " — The 
Rocky  Mountain  News. 

"  Written  in  the  choicest  slang." — Detroit 
Free  Press. 

"  John  Henry."  A  regular  side-splitter, 
and  as  good  as  "  Billy  Baxter." — New  York 
Press. 

"  It  is  as  good  as  any  of  the  books  of  its 
kind,  better  than  most  of  them,  and  is 
funny  without  being  coarse." — Portage 
Register. 


11  Down  The  Line  With  John  Henry" 
is  the  second  of  the  "John  Henry" 
books  and  quickly  followed  its  pre 
decessor  along  the  highroad  of 
success. 

The  story  of  "John  Henry  at  the 
Races "  in  "  Down  The  Line  "  has 
already  grown  to  be  a  Classic  in 
Slang.  It  is  brimful  of  human 
nature  and  is  amusing  in  the  high* 
est  degree. 


CONTENTS   OF   "DOWN  THE 
LINE." 

JOHN  HENRY  AT  THE  RACES. 
JOHN  HENRY  AND  THE  DRUMMERS. 
JOHN  HENRY  IN  BOHEMIA. 
JOHN  HENRY  AND  THE  HOTEL  CLERK. 
JOHN  HENRY  AND  THE  BENZINE  BUGGY. 
JOHN  HENRY  AT  THE  MUSICALE. 
JOHN  HENRY  PLAYS  GOLF, 
iv 


"'Down  the  Line'  is  one  good  laugh  from 
cover  to  cover,  and  some  of  the  experiences  of 
this  clever  man  are  both  amusing  and  interest 
ing.  The  book  is  illustrated  with  some  clever 
sketches  by  McKee  Barclay.  "—5^.  Lotus  Star. 


"As  in  the  former  volume,  the  present  col 
lection  of  stories  is  concerned  with  adventures  of 
a  man  about  town.  It  abounds  in  the  weirdest 
and  newest  slang,  recherche"  expressions  and  tart 
Americanisms.  There  is  much  clever  satire  on 
the  manners  and  habits  of  Americans.  The 
'  down-to-date  '  man  who  is  fond  of  slang  will 
find  in  the  volume  a  new  supply  for  his  vocab 
ulary." — Los  Angeles  Express, 


"  In  order  to  enjoy  it  you  have  got  to  tackle 
It  like  Wagner  and  chain  yourself  down  for  three 
or  four  sittings,  and  then  you  are  en  rapport,  so 
to  speak.  Come  again,  Jonathan  ! " — Denver 
Republican. 

v 


"  It's  Up  to  You !"  is  the  third  book 
in  the  John  Henry  series.  This 
story  of  domestic  bliss  relates 
the  adventures  of  John  Henrydur- 
ing  his  courtship  and  marriage. 

"  It's  Up  to  You ! "  has  been  pro 
nounced  by  critics  everywhere 
the  funniest  book  of  the  year. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  there 
is  a  laugh  in  every  line  for  this 
fact  is  amply  demonstrated  by  the 
enormous  demand  for  the  book. 

CONTENTS  OF  "IT'S  UP  TO 
YOU  !" 

JOHN  HENRY'S  COURTSHIP. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  WEDDING. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  HONEYMOON  TRIP. 
JOHN  HENRY'S  SEASHORE  VISIT. 
JOHN  HENRY  HUNTS  A  FLAT. 
JOHN  HENRY  ENTERTAINS  FRIENDS. 
JOHN  HENRY  PLAYS  PING  PO»TG. 


"'It's  Up  to  You'  stares  out  from  the 
yellow  cover.  From  a  mere  passing  sight 
at  the  familiar  cheese-cloth  binding  and  the 
portrait  of  the  faultless  gentleman  in  the 
choker,  one  might  easily  think  it  was  an 
old  wandering  copy  of  the  original  'John 
Henry  ' ;  one  hardly  dares  hope  it  is  a  new 
edition  of  that  worthy's  confidence.  But 
it  is.  And  John  Henry  stabs  us  with  his 
sentiment  He  commences  :  '  Seven  of  us 
were  entered  in  the  race  for  Clara  J.'s 
affections.'  Then  he  delightfully  tells  us 
how  he  won  out  from  the  '  other  six  society 
shines. '  The  chapter  explaining  his  method 
of  dragging  papa's  and  mama's  consent 
away  from  them  is  clogged  with  many 
smiles,  and  before  the  finish  of  the  honey 
moon  trip,  the  '  holler  '  is  certainly  '  Up  to 
You ! '  After  a  bit  John  Henry  hunts  a  flat. 
The  finding  of  the  flat  is  the  richest  slice 
of  the  book.  He  does  more — he  lives  in 
it — with  the  consent  of  the  folks  above  and 
below;  he  entertains  and  concludes  the 
third  little  volume  of  his  spicy  adventures 
with  a  game  of  ping-pong.  Now,  never 
mind — All  men  make  mistakes. 

"We  have  not  heard  near  so  much  about 
John  Henry  as  we  have  of  ping-pong ;  we 
hope  to  learn  more  of  the  former, 


and  we  fervently  pray  to  be  delivered  from 
the  latter.  However,  in  the  midst  of  the 
plague,  the  half  million  special  newspaper 
scribes  who  issue  a  column  of  unintelligible 
rot  daily  concerning  the  silly  game  should 
each  secure  a  copy  of  '  Its  Up  to  You  '  and 
learn  how  to  write  descriptions  of  ping- 
pong.  It  is  there  with  all  the  lucidity  of  a 
press  prize  fight  story.  If  you  must  ring  in 
an  old  subject  do  it  well — and  perhaps  you 
will  be  forgiven. 

"There  is  nothing  very  long,  or  broad, 
or  deep  in  the  John  Henry  books.  A  man 
who  attempts  to  criticise  a  hearty  laugh 
wastes  his  time,  besides  betraying  his  lack 
of  a  good  dinner.  We  have  heard  the  tales 
of  John  Henry  were  often  written  in  a 
single  night,  and  that  their  first  mission 
was  to  advertise  certain  other  things,  but 
we  will  gladly  say  nothing  about  it.  They 
are  a  decided  success ;  they  are  not  copies 
of  things  we  have  read  before ;  they  are  the 
cleverest  bits  of  writing  yet  received  from 
the  pen  of  George  V.  Hobart.  Let  us  hope 
that  the  train  boys  will  not  stop  selling 
them." — Baltimore  Herald. 


viii 


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••IT'S    UP    TO    YOU!" 

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BACK  TO  THE  WOODS 

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